GIFT  OF 
Prof.    S-   Einarsson 


THE   POEMS   OF 
EDWARD   ROWLAND   SILL 


THE    POEMS 


OF 


EDWARD    ROWLAND    SILL 


CAMBRIDGE 

tfrintrtr  at  £i)e  litfcermtre  $m» 
1902 


Copyright  1867  by  K  R  Sill 

Copyright  1887,  1889,  1899,  1902  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company 
All  rights  reserved 


s 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL xiii 

THE  VENUS  OF  MILO 1 

FIELD  NOTES       .         .         ...         .         .         .  9 

FIRST  LOVE  AND  FANTASY        .....  21 

MORNING 24 

LIFE 26 

FAITH 27 

SOLITUDE 29 

RETROSPECT 30 

CHRISTMAS  IN  CALIFORNIA 32 

AMONG  THE  REDWOODS          .....  37 

OPPORTUNITY 40 

HOME 41 

GOOD  NEWS 42 

REVERIE 45 

SPRING  47 


67-9819 


C  vi  ] 

FIVE  LIVES 49 

TRANQUILLITY .52 

MY  PEACE  THOU  ART 54 

HER  FACE 55 

DARE  YOU? 56 

THE  INVISIBLE 58 

A  DRIFTING  CLOUD  .......  61 

WORDSWORTH 62 

PEACE 64 

THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  HEART 65 

THE  FOOL'S  PRAYER 67 

BUT  FOR  HIM 70 

A  REPLY 72 

THE  DESERTER 74 

THE  REFORMER         ........  75 

DESIRE  OF  SLEEP 76 

HER  EXPLANATION 78 

EVE'S  DAUGHTER 79 

BLINDFOLD  .  80 


C  vii  1 

RECALL 82 

STRANGE .  83 

WIEGENLIED 84 

AN  ANCIENT  ERROR 86 

TO  A  FACE  AT  A  CONCERT 88 

TWO  VIEWS  OF  IT 89 

THE  LINKS  OF  CHANCE .90 

"WORDS,  WORDS,  WORDS"     .....  91 

THE  THRUSH 93 

CARPE  DIEM 94 

SERVICE 95 

THE  BOOK  OF  HOURS 97 

THE  WONDERFUL  THOUGHT 98 

NATURE  AND  HER  CHILD        .         .        .        .        .  102 

THE  FOSTER-MOTHER 103 

TRUTH  AT  LAST 104 

"QUEM  METUI  MORITURA?" 105 

A  MORNING  THOUGHT 106 

THE  HERMITAGE  .  107 


C  viii  3 

SUNDOWN 150 

THE  ARCH 152 

APRIL  IN  OAKLAND 154 

STARLIGHT 157 

A  DEAD  BIRD  IN  WINTER 160 

SPRING  TWILIGHT 162 

* 

EVENING ,  164 

THE  ORGAN 166 

EASTERN  WINTER 168 

SLEEPING 170 

A  PRAYER 172 

THE  POLAR  SEA 173 

THE  FUTURE 176 

A  DAILY  MIRACLE        ...  178 

THE  NORTH  WIND     ....  179 

CALIFORNIA  WINTER  ...  132 

INFLUENCES         ....  135 

THE  LOVER'S  SONG       ....  186 

A  TROPICAL  MORNING  AT  SEA  137 


C  ix  3 

A  FOOLISH  WISH  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .190 

EVERY-DAY  LIFE 192 

BEFORE  SUNRISE  IN  WINTER 193 

THE  CHOICE 194 

SIBYLLINE  BARTERING 195 

MUSIC 197 

THREE  SONGS .        .200 

DESPAIR  AND  HOPE 201 

WISDOM  AND  FAME 204 

SERENITY 206 

THE  RUBY  HEART 208 

TO  CHILD  ANNA 213 

THE  WORLD'S  SECRET 215 

THE  FOUNTAIN 217 

DISCONTENT 219 

SEEMING  AND  BEING 220 

WEATHER-BOUND 223 

TO  CHILD  SARA 225 

A  FABLE  .  228 


C  x  3 

THE  CREATION  ........  233 

THE  FIRST  CAUSE 234 

SEMELE 236 

A  POETS  APOLOGY 239 

ONE  TOUCH  OF  NATURE 240 

THE  CRICKETS  IN  THE  FIELDS         ....  243 
HERMIONE. 

I.  THE  LOST  MAGIC 244 

II.  INFLUENCES 245 

III.  THE  DEAD  LETTER 246 

IV.  THE  SONG  IN  THE  NIGHT 247 

REPROOF  IN  LOVE     ...'....  248 

TEMPTED 249 

ALONE 250 

TO  A  MAID  DEMURE 252 

THE  COUP  DE  GRACE 254 

THE  WORLD  RUNS  ROUND          .        .         .        .        .256 

SUNDAY 261 

ON  SECOND  THOUGHT  262 


C  xi  ] 

HIS  LOST  DAY .263 

FERTILITY        .         .        . 265 

THE  MYSTERY 266 

THE  LOST  BIRD 267 

WARNING 269 

SUMMER  AFTERNOON .270 

SUMMER  NIGHT 272 

A  CALIFORNIAN'S  DREAMS 273 

FULFILLMENT 276 

THE  SINGER   .........  278 

THE  THINGS  THAT  WILL  NOT  DIE       ...  280 

THE  SECRET   .         .        • 283 

LOST  LOVE 286 

APPRECIATED 288 

MOODS 289 

SPACE 290 

UNTIMELY  THOUGHT 291 

THE  LIFE  NATURAL 292 

THE  ORACLE  .  293 


C  x»3 

FORCE       ..........  295 

NIGHT  AND  PEACE 298 

THE  SINGER'S  CONFESSION 299 

LIVING 301 

EVEN  THERE 302 

SUMMER  RAIN 303 

A  RESTING-PLACE 304 

A  MEMORY 306 

THE  OPEN  WINDOW 308 

ON  A  PICTURE  OF  MT.  SHASTA  BY  KEITH         .  310 

THE  TREE  OF  MY  LIFE 313 

A  CHILD  AND  A  STAR 315 

AT  DAWN 317 

AN  ADAGE  FROM  THE  ORIENT     ....  318 

A  PARADOX 319 

THE  PHILOSOPHER 320 

A  BIRD'S  SONG 321 

THE  DEAD  PRESIDENT 322 

ROLAND    .  325 


EDWAED  ROWLAND   SILL 


EDWARD  ROWLAND   SILL 

-L  HE  steady  although  somewhat  tardy  growth  of 
Sill's  reputation  as  a  poet  may  best  be  illustrated  by 
the  history  of  his  published  writings.  In  1868,  seven 
years  after  leaving  college,  he  issued,  through  the 
house  of  Leypoldt  and  Holt,  a  slender  volume  en 
titled  The  Hermitage  and  Other  Poems.  He  waited 
fifteen  years  before  venturing  upon  his  next  book, 
which  was  a  still  more  tiny,  privately  printed  vol 
ume,  The  Venus  of  Milo  and  Other  Poems,  dated  at 
Berkeley,  California,  1883.  A  year  or  two  before 
his  death,  which  occurred  in  1887,  his  present  pub 
lishers,  who  had  noted  with  interest  the  poems  which 
Sill  had  been  contributing  to  the  Atlantic  and  other 
periodicals,  both  under  his  own  name  and  under  pseu 
donyms,  invited  him  to  make  a  collection  of  his  poetry 
for  publication.  He  was  in  no  haste  to  do  this,  for 
he  was  in  the  midst  of  his  most  fertile  period  of  cre 
ative  activity.  While  he  was  still  uncertain  as  to  his 
choice  of  material  for  the  proposed  volume,  he  passed 


C    xiv   ] 

away.  But  in  November,  1887,  his  publishers  issued 
Poems  ~by  Edward  Rowland  Sill,  a  volume  which 
contained  five  pieces  from  The  Hermitage,  a  consid 
erable  portion  of  the  contents  of  The  Venus  of  Milo 
and  Other  Poems,  and  a  selection  from  the  uncol- 
lected  poems  of  the  last  four  or  five  years  of  his  life. 
This  book  won  many  readers.  Two  years  later  a 
second  collection  was  made,  bearing  the  title  The 
Hermitage  and  Later  Poems,  and  enriched  with  a 
tributary  lyric  by  Mr.  Aldrich.  So  constant  did  the 
interest  in  Sill's  poetry  prove  to  be,  that  in  1899, 
twelve  years  after  the  poet's  death,  his  publishers  pre 
sented  a  final  volume  of  verse,  Hermione  and  Other 
Poems,  gathered  from  his  manuscripts  and  from  the 
various  periodicals  in  which  his  work  had  appeared. 
It  is  by  these  books,  together  with  The  Prose  of  Ed 
ward  Rowland  Sill  (1900),  a  volume  made  up  chiefly 
of  papers  written  for  the  Contributors'  Club  of  the 
Atlantic,  that  his  reputation  as  a  man  of  letters  has 
been  established. 

The  interest  aroused  by  Sill's  writings  is  attributa 
ble  in  part,  no  doubt,  to  the  marked  individuality  of 
the  man.  The  story  of  his  career  is  brief  and  modest. 
He  was  born  in  Windsor,  Connecticut,  April  29, 1841, 


C  xv  3 

of  English  and  Welsh  ancestry.  His  mother's  father 
and  grandfather  were  Congregational  ministers.  His 
father  and  his  father's  father  were  physicians  and  sur 
geons.  He  was  graduated  at  Yale  in  1861,  and  for 
some  years  was  engaged  in  business  in  California. 
In  1867  he  returned  East  with  the  expectation  of  en 
tering  the  ministry,  and  studied  for  a  few  months  at 
the  Divinity  School  of  Harvard  University.  He  gave 
up  the  purpose,  however,  married,  and  began  to 
occupy  himself  with  literary  work.  He  translated 
Rau's  Mozart,  and  held  for  a  while  an  editorial  posi 
tion  on  the  New  York  Evening  Mail.  But  his  pe 
culiar  power  in  stimulating  the  minds  of  others  drew 
him  into  the  work  of  teaching,  and  he  became  prin 
cipal  of  an  academy  in  Ohio.  His  California  life, 
however,  had  given  him  a  strong  attachment  to  the 
Pacific  coast  and  a  sense  that  his  health  would  be 
better  there,  and  accordingly,  on  receiving  an  invita 
tion  to  a  position  in  the  Oakland  High  School,  he  re 
moved  to  California  in  1871.  In  1874,  he  accepted 
the  chair  of  English  Literature  in  the  University  of 
California,  and  filled  it  with  rare  success  for  eight 
years.  Compelled  by  failing  health  to  resign  in 
1882,  he  passed  the  latest  years  of  his  life  in  Ohio, 


c:  xvi  3 

and  died  in  Cleveland,  after  a  brief  illness,  on  Feb 
ruary  27,  1887. 

Yet  back  of  this  career,  typical  of  that  of  many 
of  his  countrymen  in  its  frequent  changes  of  scene, 
its  patient  struggle  against  hard  conditions,  one  per 
ceives  a  strong  personality.  His  life  as  a  teacher  was 
noteworthy  for  its  capacity  to  inspire  right  principles 
of  conduct ;  he  was  a  passionate  idealist,  who  drew  to 
himself  the  affection  and  pride  of  his  pupils.  One  of 
his  comrades  in  many  a  yearly  outing  in  California 
sums  up  his  disposition  by  calling  him  "a  genial, 
gentle,  sincere,  unaffected,  deep-sighted,  quick-witted, 
delightful,  gifted,  lovable,  manful,  communicating 
man."  In  this  long  concourse  of  friendly  adjectives 
much  stress,  doubtless,  is  to  be  thrown  upon  the  last. 
Sill  loved  to  communicate,  and  it  was  this  quality  of 
his  temperament  which  helped  to  make  him  a  poet. 

A  real  poet  he  unquestionably  is  :  a  "  minor  poet," 
if  one  chooses  to  insist  upon  distinctions  of  rank,  yet 
with  a  message  of  his  own,  and  a  voice  that  is  subtly 
differentiated  from  that  of  any  other  singer.  He 
wrote  in  a  private  letter,  the  year  before  his  death,  "  I 
know  my  Browning,  Tennyson,  Matthew  Arnold, 


Emerson,  far  better  than  I  do  the  ancients.  And  my 
Scott,  Byron,  Shelley  and  Wordsworth  far  better  than 
the  more  ancient  than  they."  This  intimate  know 
ledge  of  the  greater  English  poets  of  the  nineteenth 
century  left  its  impress  upon  Sill's  own  productions, 
and  among  the  names  cited,  Tennyson,  Arnold,  and 
Emerson  seem  to  have  influenced  him  most.  But  as 
with  Lowell,  whose  nature  was  in  many  respects  akin 
to  Sill's,  the  inspiration  that  comes  from  books  left 
upon  the  poet's  work  few  traces  of  mere  bookishness. 
He  saw  the  world  with  his  own  eyes,  and  his  verse  was 
all  the  richer  for  his  familiarity  with  the  thought  and 
the  music  of  the  masters.  Some  of  the  most  character 
istic  phases  of  his  poetry,  such  as  its  variety  of  mood 
and  form,  sensitiveness  to  the  influences  of  nature,  and 
the  flawless  purity  of  its  spirit,  are  traits  which  attest 
his  brotherhood  with  the  representative  authors  of  his 
country  and  his  time.  But  the  individual  impression 
he  has  made  thus  far  —  and  it  should  be  remembered 
that  Sill's  fame  is  still  crescent  —  is  by  virtue  of  the 
fine  strenuousness,  the  noble  temper,  of  such  poems 
as  Opportunity  and  The  Fool's  Prayer.  Here  are 
gallant  courage,  reverence,  and  enduring  faith;  an 


xv 

insight  that  divines  the  prof  oundest  sources  of  human 
emotion  and  an  art  that  expresses  them  with  finished 
beauty. 

The  present  edition  gives  the  reader,  for  the  first 
time,  an  opportunity  to  survey  Sill's  poetical  produc 
tions  in  their  entirety.  It  contains  all  the  work  in 
cluded  in  the  three  volumes  already  published  by 
Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company,  and,  in  ad 
dition  to  this,  several  poems  hitherto  uncollected,  which 
are  thought  worthy  of  being  placed  among  the  rest, 
and  which  the  increasing  company  of  Sill's  admirers 
are  sure  to  welcome. 

March,  1902. 


POEMS 


THE  VENUS  OF  MILO 

THERE  fell  a  vision  to  Praxiteles  : 
Watching  thro'  drowsy  lids  the  loitering  seas 
That  lay  caressing  with  white  arms  of  foam 
The  sleeping  marge  of  his  Ionian  home, 
He  saw  great  Aphrodite  standing  near, 
Knew  her,  at  last,  the  Beautiful  he  had  sought 
With  lifelong  passion,  and  in  love  and  fear 
Into  unsullied  stone  the  vision  wrought. 

Far  other  was  the  form  that  Cnidos  gave 
To  senile  Rome,  no  longer  free  or  brave,  — 
The  Medicean,  naked  like  a  slave. 
The  Cnidians  built  her  shrine 
Of  creamy  ivory  fine ; 
Most  costly  was  the  floor 
Of  scented  cedar,  and  from  door 
Was  looped  to  carven  door 
Rich  stuff  of  Tyrian  purple,  in  whose  shade 
Her  glistening  shoulders  and  round  limbs  outshone, 
Milk-white  as  lilies  in  a  summer  moon. 


C  *  ] 

Here  honey-hearted  Greece  to  worship  came, 
And  on  her  altar  leaped  a  turbid  flame. 
The  quickened  blood  ran  dancing  to  its  doom, 
And  lip  sought  trembling  lip  in  that  rich  gloom. 

But  the  island  people  of  Cos,  by  the  salt  main 
From  Persia's  touch  kept  clean, 
Chose  for  their  purer  shrine  amid  the  seas 
That  grander  vision  of  Praxiteles. 
Long  ages  after,  sunken  in  the  ground 
Of  sea-girt  Melos,  wondering  shepherds  found 
The  marred  and  dinted  copy  which  men  name 
Venus  of  Milo,  saved  to  endless  fame. 

Before  the  broken  marble,  on  a  day, 
There  came  a  worshiper  :  a  slanted  ray 
Struck  in  across  the  dimness  of  her  shrine 
And  touched  her  face  as  to  a  smile  divine ; 
For  it  was  like  the  worship  of  a  Greek 
At  her  old  altar.     Thus  I  heard  him  speak  :  — 

Men  call  thee  Love :  is  there  no  holier  name 
Than  hers,  the  foam-born,  laughter-loving  dame  ? 
Nay,  for  there  is  than  love  no  holier  name  : 


C     3     ] 

All  words  that  pass  the  lips  of  mortal  men 
With  inner  and  with  outer  meaning  shine ; 
An  outer  gleam  that  meets  the  common  ken, 
An  inner  light  that  but  the  few  divine. 
Thou  art  the  love  celestial,  seeking  still 
The  soul  beneath  the  form  ;  the  serene  will ; 
The  wisdom,  of  whose  deeps  the  sages  dream ; 
The  unseen  beauty  that  doth  faintly  gleam 
In  stars,  and  flowers,  and  waters  where  they  roll ; 
The  unheard  music  whose  faint  echoes  even 
Make  whosoever  hears  a  homesick  soul 
Thereafter,  till  he  follow  it  to  heaven. 

Larger  than  mortal  woman  I  see  thee  stand, 
With  beautiful  head  bent  forward  steadily, 
As  if  those  earnest  eyes  could  see 
Some  glorious  thing  far  off,  to  which  thy  hand 
Invisibly  stretched  onward  seems  to  be. 
From  thy  white  forehead's  breadth  of  calm,  the  hair 
Sweeps  lightly,  as  a  cloud  in  windless  air. 
Placid  thy  brows,  as  that  still  line  at  dawn 
Where  the  dim  hills  along  the  sky  are  drawn, 
When  the  last  stars  are  drowned  in  deeps  afar. 
Thy  quiet  mouth  —  I  know  not  if  it  smile, 


C    4    n 

Or  if  in  some  wise  pity  thou  wilt  weep,  — 
Little  as  one  may  tell,  some  summer  morn, 
Whether  the  dreamy  brightness  is  most  glad, 
Or  wonderfully  sad,  — 
So  bright,  so  still  thy  lips  serenely  sleep ; 
So  fixedly  thine  earnest  eyes  the  while, 
As  clear  and  steady  as  the  morning  star, 
Their  gaze  upon  that  coming  glory  keep. 

Thy  garment's  fallen  folds 
Leave  beautiful  the  fair,  round  breast 
In  sacred  loveliness ;  the  bosom  deep 
Where  happy  babe  might  sleep ; 
The  ample  waist  no  narrowing  girdle  holds, 
Where  daughters  slim  might  come  to  cling  and  rest, 
Like  tendriled  vines  against  the  plane-tree  pressed. 
Around  thy  firm,  large  limbs  and  steady  feet 
The  robes  slope  downward,  as  the  folded  hills 
Slope  round  the  mountain's  knees,  when  shadow  fills 
The  hollow  canons,  and  the  wind  is  sweet 
From  russet  oat-fields  and  the  ripening  wheat. 

Prom  our  low  world  no  gods  have  taken  wing ; 
Even  now  upon  our  hills  the  twain  are  wandering ; 


C    5    ] 

The  Medicean's  sly  and  servile  grace, 

And  the  immortal  beauty  of  thy  face. 

One  is  the  spirit  of  all  short-lived  love 

And  outward,  earthly  loveliness  : 

The  tremulous  rosy  morn  is  her  mouth's  smile, 

The  sky  her  laughing  azure  eyes  above ; 

And,  waiting  for  caress, 

Lie  bare  the  soft  hill-slopes,  the  while 

Her  thrilling  voice  is  heard 

In  song  of  wind  and  wave,  and  every  flitting  bird. 

Not  plainly,  never  quite  herself  she  shows ; 

Just  a  swift  glance  of  her  illumined  smile 

Along  the  landscape  goes ; 

Just  a  soft  hint  of  singing,  to  beguile 

A  man  from  ah1  his  toil ; 

Some  vanished  gleam  of  beckoning  arm,  to  spoil 

A  morning's  task  with  longing  wild  and  vain. 

Then  if  across  the  parching  plain 

He  seek  her,  she  with  passion  burns 

His  heart  to  fever,  and  he  hears 

The  west  wind's  mocking  laughter  when  he  turns, 

Shivering  in  mist  of  ocean's  sullen  tears. 

It  is  the  Medicean  :  well  I  know 

The  arts  her  ancient  subtlety  will  show ; 


C     6    ^ 

The  stubble-fields  she  turns  to  ruddy  gold ; 

The  empty  distance  she  will  fold 

In  purple  gauze  :  the  warm  glow  she  has  kissed 

Along  the  chilling  mist : 

Cheating  and  cheated  love  that  grows  to  hate 

And  ever  deeper  loathing,  soon  or  late. 

Thou,  too,  0  fairer  spirit,  walkest  here 
Upon  the  hf  ted  hills : 

Wherever  that  still  thought  within  the  breast 
The  inner  beauty  of  the  world  hath  moved ; 
In  starlight  that  the  dome  of  evening  fills ; 
On  endless  waters  rounding  to  the  west : 
For  them  who  thro5  that  beauty's  veil  have  loved 
The  soul  of  all  things  beautiful  the  best. 
For  lying  broad  awake,  long  ere  the  dawn, 
Staring  against  the  dark,  the  blank  of  space 
Opens  immeasurably,  and  thy  face 
Wavers  and  glimmers  there  and  is  withdrawn. 
And  many  days,  when  all  one's  work  is  vain, 
And  life  goes  stretching  on,  a  waste  gray  plain, 
With  even  the  short  mirage  of  morning  gone, 
No  cool  breath  anywhere,  no  shadow  nigh 
Where  a  weary  man  might  lay  him  down  and  die, 


C    7     ] 

Lo  !  thou  art  there  before  me  suddenly, 

With  shade  as  if  a  summer  cloud  did  pass, 

And  spray  of  fountains  whispering  to  the  grass. 

Oh,  save  me  from  the  haste  and  noise  and  heat 

That  spoil  life's  music  sweet : 

And  from  that  lesser  Aphrodite  there  — 

Even  now  she  stands 

Close  as  I  turn,  and,  0  my  soul,  how  fair ! 

Nay,  I  will  heed  not  thy  white  beckoning  hands, 

Nor  thy  soft  lips  like  the  curled  inner  leaf 

In  a  rosebud's  breast,  kissed  languid  by  the  sun, 

Nor  eyes  like  liquid  gleams  where  waters  run. 

Yea,  thou  art  beautiful  as  morn ; 

And  even  as  I  draw  nigh 

To  scoff,  I  own  the  loveliness  I  scorn. 

Farewell,  for  thou  hast  lost  me :  keep  thy  train 

Of  worshipers ;  me  thou  dost  lure  in  vain  : 

The  inner  passion,  pure  as  very  fire, 

Burns  to  light  ash  the  earthlier  desire. 

0  greater  Aphrodite,  unto  thee 
Let  me  not  say  farewell.     What  would  Earth  be 
Without  thy  presence?     Surely  unto  me 
A  lifelong  weariness,  a  dull,  bad  dream. 


Abide  with  me,  and  let  thy  calm  brows  beam 

Fresh  hope  upon  me  every  amber  dawn, 

New  peace  when  evening's  violet  veil  is  drawn. 

Then,  tho'  I  see  along  the  glooming  plain 

The  Medicean's  waving  hand  again, 

And  white  feet  glimmering  in  the  harvest-field, 

I  shall  not  turn,  nor  yield ; 

But  as  heaven  deepens,  and  the  Cross  and  Lyre 

Lift  up  their  stars  beneath  the  Northern  Crown, 

Unto  the  yearning  of  the  world's  desire 

I  shall  be  'ware  of  answer  coming  down ; 

And  something,  when  my  heart  the  darkness  stills, 

Shall  tell  me,  without  sound  or  any  sight, 

That  other  footsteps  are  upon  the  hills ; 

Till  the  dim  earth  is  luminous  with  the  light 

Of  the  white  dawn,  from  some  far-hidden  shore, 

That  shines  upon  thy  forehead  evermore. 


FIELD  NOTES 


BY  the  wild  fence-row,  all  grown  up 

With  tall  oats,  and  the  buttercup, 

And  the  seeded  grass,  and  blue  flax-flower, 

I  fling  myself  in  a  nest  of  green, 

Walled  about  and  all  unseen, 

And  lose  myself  in  the  quiet  hour. 

Now  and  then  from  the  orchard-tree 

To  the  sweet  clover  at  my  knee 

Hums  the  crescendo  of  a  bee, 

Making  the  silence  seem  more  still ; 

Overhead  on  a  maple  prong 

The  least  of  birds,  a  jeweled  sprite, 

With  burnished  throat  and  needle  bill, 

Wags  his  head  in  the  golden  light, 

Till  it  flashes,  and  dulls,  and  flashes  bright, 

Cheeping  his  microscopic  song. 

1  Written  for  the  graduating  class  of  1882,  at  Smith  College, 
Northampton,  Mass.  It  is  a  pleasant  custom  at  that  college  for  each 
class  to  send  abroad  and  invite  some  one  to  celebrate  its  entrance 
into  the  greater  world. 


i: 


ii 


Far  up  the  hill-farm,  where  the  breeze 

Dips  its  wing  in  the  billowy  grain, 

Waves  go  chasing  from  the  plain 

On  softly  undulating  seas ; 

Now  near  my  nest  they  swerve  and  turn, 

And  now  go  wandering  without  aim ; 

Or  yonder,  where  the  poppies  burn, 

Race  up  the  slope  in  harmless  flame. 

Sometimes  the  bold  wind  sways  my  walls, 

My  four  green  walls  of  the  grass  and  oats, 

But  never  a  slender  column  falls, 

And  the  blue  sky-roof  above  them  floats. 

Cool  in  the  glowing  sun  I  feel 

On  wrist  and  cheek  the  sea-breeze  steal 

From  the  wholesome  ocean  brine. 

The  air  is  full  of  the  whispering  pine, 

Surf-sound  of  an  aerial  sea  ; 

And  the  light  clashing,  near  and  far, 

As  of  mimic  shield  and  scimitar, 

Of  the  slim  Australian  tree. 


C  "  3 


III 


So  all  that  azure  day 
In  the  lap  of  the  green  world  I  lay  ; 
And  drinking  of  the  sunshine's  flood, 
Like  Sigurd  when  the  dragon's  blood 
Made  the  bird-songs  understood, 
Inward  or  outward  I  could  hear 
A  murmuring  of  music  near ; 
And  this  is  what  it  seemed  to  say :  — 


IV 


Old  earth,  how  beautiful  thou  art ! 
Though  restless  fancy  wander  wide 
And  sigh  in  dreams  for  spheres  more  blest, 
Save  for  some  trouble,  half -confessed, 
Some  least  misgiving,  all  my  heart 
With  such  a  world  were  satisfied. 
Had  every  day  such  skies  of  blue, 
Were  men  all  wise,  and  women  true, 
Might  youth  as  calm  as  manhood  be, 
And  might  calm  manhood  keep  its  lore 


And  still  be  young  —  and  one  thing  more. 
Old  earth  were  fair  enough  for  me. 

Ah,  sturdy  world,  old  patient  world  ! 
Thou  hast  seen  many  times  and  men ; 
Heard  jibes  and  curses  at  thee  hurled 
From  cynic  lip  and  peevish  pen. 
But  give  the  mother  once  her  due  : 
Were  women  wise,  and  men  all  true  — 
And  one  thing  more  that  may  not  be, 
Old  earth  were  fair  enough  for  me. 


If  only  we  were  worthier  found 

Of  the  stout  ball  that  bears  us  round ! 

New  wants,  new  ways,  pert  plans  of  change, 

New  answers  to  old  questions  strange ; 

But  to  the  older  questions  still 

No  new  replies  have  come,  or  will. 

New  speed  to  buzz  abroad  and  see 

Cities  where  one  needs  not  to  be ; 

But  no  new  way  to  dwell  at  home, 

Or  there  to  make  great  friendships  come ; 


C  is  3 

No  novel  way  to  seek  or  find 
True  hearts  and  the  heroic  mind. 
Of  atom  force  and  chemic  stew 
Nor  Socrates  nor  Caesar  knew, 
But  the  old  ages  knew  a  plan  — 
The  lost  art  —  how  to  mould  a  man. 


VI 


World,  wise  old  world. 
What  may  man  do  for  thee  ? 
Thou  that  art  greater  than  all  of  us, 
What  wilt  thou  do  to  me  ? 
This  glossy  curve  of  the  tall  grass-spear  — 
Can  I  make  its  lustrous  green  more  clear  ? 
This  tapering  shaft  of  oat,  that  knows 
To  grow  erect  as  the  great  pine  grows, 
And  to  sway  in  the  wind  as  well  as  he  — 
Can  I  teach  it  to  nod  more  graciously  ? 
The  lark  on  the  mossy  rail  so  nigh, 
Wary,  but  pleased  if  I  keep  my  place  — 
Who  could  give  a  single  grace 
To  his  flute-note  sweet  and  high, 
Or  help  him  find  his  nest  hard  by  ? 


C     14     1 

Can  I  add  to  the  poppy's  gold  one  bit  ? 
Can  I  deepen  the  sky,  or  soften  it  ? 


VII 

jEons  ago  a  rock  crashed  down 

From  a  mountain's  crown, 

Where  a  tempest's  tread 

Crumbled  it  from  its  hold. 

Ages  dawn  and  in  turn  grow  old : 

The  rock  lies  still  and  dead. 

Flames  come  and  floods  come, 

Sea  rolls  this  mountain  crumb 

To  a  pebble,,  in  its  play ; 

Till  at  the  last  man  came  to  be, 

And  a  thousand  generations  passed  away. 

Then  from  the  bed  of  a  brook  one  day 

A  boy  with  the  heart  of  a  king 

Fitted  the  stone  to  his  shepherd  sling, 

And  a  giant  fell,  and  a  royal  race  was  free. 

Not  out  of  any  cloud  or  sky 

Will  thy  good  come  to  prayer  or  cry. 

Let  the  great  forces,  wise  of  old, 

Have  their  whole  way  with  thee, 


C    15    ] 

Crumble  thy  heart  from  its  hold, 

Drown  thy  life  in  the  sea. 

And  aeons  hence,  some  day, 

The  love  thou  gavest  a  child, 

The  dream  in  a  midnight  wild, 

The  word  thou  wouldst  not  say— 

Or  in  a  whisper  no  one  dared  to  hear, 

Shall  gladden  the  earth  and  bring  the  golden  year, 

VIII 

Just  now  a  spark  of  fire 

Flashed  from  a  builder's  saw 

On  the  ribs  of  a  roof  a  mile  away. 

His  has  been  the  better  day, 

Gone  not  in  dreams,  nor  even  the  subtle  desire 

Not  to  desire ; 

But  work  is  the  sober  law 

He  knows  well  to  obey. 

It  is  a  poem  he  fits  and  fashions  well ; 

And  the  five  chambers  are  five  acts  of  it : 

Hope  in  one  shall  dwell, 

In  another  fear  will  sit ; 

In  the  chamber  on  the  east 


C  l6  1 

Shall  be  the  bridal  feast ; 
In  the  western  one 
The  dead  shall  lie  alone. 
So  the  cycles  of  life  shall  fill 
The  clean,  pine-scented  rooms  where  now  he 
works  his  will. 


IX 


Might  one  be  healed  from  fevering  thought, 

And  only  look,  each  night, 

On  some  plain  work  well  wrought, 

Or  if  a  man  as  right  and  true  might  be 

As  a  flower  or  tree  ! 

I  would  give  up  all  the  mind 

In  the  prim  city's  hoard  can  find  — 

House  with  its  scrap-art  bedight, 

Straitened  manners  of  the  street, 

Smooth-voiced  society  — 

If  so  the  swiftness  of  the  wind 

Might  pass  into  my  feet ; 

If  so  the  sweetness  of  the  wheat 

Into  my  soul  might  pass, 

And  the  clear  courage  of  the  grass ; 


I    17    ] 

If  the  lark  caroled  in  my  song  ; 
If  one  tithe  of  the  faithfulness 
Of  the  bird-mother  with  her  brood 
Into  my  selfish  heart  might  press, 
And  make  me  also  instinct-good. 


Life  is  a  game  the  soul  can  play 

With  fewer  pieces  than  men  say. 

Only  to  grow  as  the  grass  grows, 

Prating  not  of  joys  or  woes ; 

To  burn  as  the  steady  hearth-fire  burns ; 

To  shine  as  the  star  can  shine, 

Or  only  as  the  mote  of  dust  that  turns 

Darkling  and  twinkling  in  the  beam  of  light  divine ; 

And  for  my  wisdom  — r-  glad  to  know 

Where  the  sweetest  beech-nuts  grow, 

And  to  track  out  the  spicy  root, 

Or  peel  the  musky  core  of  the  wild-berry  shoot ; 

And  how  the  russet  ground-bird  bold 

With  both  slim  feet  at  once  will  lightly  rake  the 

mould ; 
And  why  moon-shadows  from  the  swaying  limb 


[     18    3 

Here  are  sharp  and  there  are  dim ; 

And  how  the  ant  his  zigzag  way  can  hold 

Through  the  grass  that  is  a  grove  to  him. 

'T  were  good  to  live  one's  life  alone. 

So  to  share  life  with  many  a  one  : 

To  keep  a  thought  seven  years,  and  then 

Welcome  it  coming  to  you 

On  the  way  from  another's  brain  and  pen, 

So  to  judge  if  it  be  true. 

Then  would  the  world  be  fair, 

Beautiful  as  is  the  past, 

Whose  beauty  we  can  see  at  last, 

Since  self  no  more  is  there. 


XI 


I  will  be  glad  to  be  and  do, 

And  glad  of  all  good  men  that  live, 

For  they  are  woof  of  nature  too  ; 

Glad  of  the  poets  every  one, 

Pure  Longfellow,  great  Emerson, 

And  all  that  Shakespeare's  world  can  give. 

When  the  road  is  dust,  and  the  grass  dries, 


I    19    ] 

Then  will  I  gaze  on  the  deep  skies  ; 
And  if  Dame  Nature  frown  in  cloud, 
Well,  mother  —  then  my  heart  shall  say  — 
You  cannot  so  drive  me  away  ; 
I  will  still  exult  aloud. 
Companioned  of  the  good  hard  ground, 
Whereon  stout  hearts  of  every  clime, 
In  the  battles  of  all  time, 
Foothold  and  couch  have  found. 


XII 


Joy  to  the  laughing  troop 

That  from  the  threshold  starts, 

Led  on  by  courage  and  immortal  hope, 

And  with  the  morning  in  their  hearts. 

They  to  the  disappointed  earth  shall  give 

The  lives  we  meant  to  live, 

Beautiful,  free,  and  strong  ; 

The  light  we  almost  had 

Shall  make  them  glad ; 

The  words  we  waited  long 

Shall  run  in  music  from  their  voice  and  song. 

Unto  our  world  hope's  daily  oracles 


C  20  3 

From  their  lips  shall  be  brought ; 

And  in  our  lives  love's  hourly  miracles 

By  them  be  wrought. 

Their  merry  task  shall  be 

To  make  the  house  all  fine  and  sweet 

Its  new  inhabitants  to  greet, 

The  wondrous  dawning  century. 

XIII 

And  now  the  close  of  this  fair  day  was  come  ; 

The  bay  grew  duskier  on  its  purple  floor, 

And  the  long  curve  of  foam 

Drew  its  white  net  along  a  dimmer  shore. 

Through  the  fading  saffron  light, 

Through  the  deepening  shade  of  even, 

The  round  earth  rolled  into  the  summer  night, 

And  watched  the  kindling  of  the  stars  in  heaven, 


C 


FIRST  LOVE  AND  FANTASY 

HID  in  the  silence  of  a  forest  deep 
Dwelt  a  fair  soul,  in  flesh  that  was  as  fair. 
Over  her  nimble  hands  her  floating  hair 
Made  waving  shadows,  while  her  eyes  did  keep 
The  winding  track  of  weavery  intricate. 
Early  at  morn,  and  at  the  evening  late, 
A  robe  of  shimmering  silk  she  wove  with  care. 
Hour  after  hour,  though  might  she  smile  or  weep, 
Still  ran  the  golden  or  the  glooming  thread. 
Waking,  she  wove  that  which  she  dreamed  asleep, 
Till  many  a  moon  had  bloomed  and  blanched  above 
her  head. 

Now  when  the  time  was  full,  the  robe  was  done. 
Light  she  would  hold  it  in  her  loving  hand, 
And  with  wide  eyes  of  wonder  she  would  stand 
For  half  the  day,  and  turn  it  to  the  sun, 
To  see  its  gold  lights  shift  and  melt  away 
And  grow  again,  and  flash  in  myriad  play. 
Or,  while  it  glimmered  on  each  glossy  strand, 


L    22    3 

For  half  the  night  she  held  it  to  the  moon  ; 

Or,  sitting  with  it  sleeked  across  her  knee, 

She  would  bend  down  above  it,  and  would  croon 

The  strangest  bits  of  broken  songs  that  e'er  could  be. 

Then  came  the  dawn  when  (so  her  doom  had  said) 
Out  through  the  shadowy  forest  she  must  go, 
And  follow  wheresoever  chance  might  show, 
Or  whither  any  sound  her  footsteps  led  ; 
Taking  for  wayward  guides  whatever  stirred  — 
The  rustling  squirrel,  or  the  startled  bird, 
Their  pathless  ways  pursuing,  fast  or  slow  — 
Until  the  forest's  border  she  should  tread. 
There,  whosoever  met  her,  she  must  fling 
That  woven  wonder  blindly  o'er  his  head, 
And  see  in  him  f  orevermore  her  lord  and  king. 

Dim  was  the  morn,  and  dew-wet  was  the  way  : 

Aloft  the  ancient  cedars  lifted  high 

Their  jagged  crosses  on  the  brightening  sky  : 

Below,  the  gossamers  were  glimmering  gray 

Along  her  path,  and  many  a  silver  thread 

Caught  glancing  lights,  in  floating  curves  o'erhead  ; 

And  little  dew-showers  pattered  far  and  nigh, 


[     33    3 

Where  wakened  thrushes  stirred  the  sprinkled  spray. 
For  hours  she  wandered  where  her  footsteps  led, 
Till  a  long  glance  of  open  sunlight  lay 
As  red  as  gold  upon  her  lifted,  eager  head. 

Ah,  woe  for  her,  that  mortal  doom  must  be  ! 
Just  then  the  prince  came  spurring,  fair  and  young, 
With  heart  as  merry  as  the  song  he  sung ; 
But  when  she  started  forward,  at  her  knee 
A  cringing  beggar  from  the  weeds  close  by 
Holds  up  his  cap  for  alms,  with  whining  cry. 
Swift  over  him  the  lifted  robe  was  flung  : 
Henceforth,  his  slave,  forever  she  must  see 
All  princely  beauty  in  that  brutal  face  — 
Heaven  send  that  by  some  deeper  witchery 
His  meagre  soul  through  her  may  gain  its  touch  of 
grace ! 


C 


MORNING 

I  ENTERED  once,  at  break  of  day, 

A  chapel,  lichen-stained  and  gray, 

Where  a  congregation  dozed  and  heard 

An  old  monk  read  from  a  written  Word. 

No  light  through  the  window-panes  could  pass, 

For  shutters  were  closed  on  the  rich  stained-glass ; 

And  in  a  gloom  like  the  nether  night 

The  monk  read  on  by  a  taper's  light. 

Ghostly  with  shadows,  that  shrank  and  grew 

As  the  dim  light  flared,  were  aisle  and  pew  ; 

And  the  congregation  that  dozed  around 

Listened  without  a  stir  or  sound  — 

Save  one,  who  rose  with  wistful  face, 

And  shifted  a  shutter  from  its  place. 

Then  light  flashed  in  like  a  flashing  gem  — 

For  dawn  had  come  unknown  to  them  — 

And  a  slender  beam,  like  a  lance  of  gold, 

Shot  to  the  crimson  curtain-fold, 

Over  the  bended  head  of  him 

Who  pored  and  pored  by  the  taper  dim ; 


And  it  kindled  over  his  wrinkled  brow 
Such  words  —  "  The  law  which  was  till  now ; " 
And  I  wondered  that,  under  that  morning  ray, 
When  night  and  shadow  were  scattered  away, 
The  monk  should  bow  his  locks  of  white 
By  a  taper's  feebly  flickering  light  — 
Should  pore,  and  pore,  and  never  seem 
To  notice  the  golden  morning-beam. 


C    26 


LIFE 

FORENOON  and  afternoon  and  night,  —  Forenoon, 
And  afternoon,  and  night, —  Forenoon,  and  —  what ! 
The  empty  song  repeats  itself.     No  more  ? 
Yea,  that  is  Life  :  make  this  forenoon  sublime, 
This  afternoon  a  psalm,  this  night  a  prayer, 
And  Time  is  conquered,  and  thy  crown  is  won. 


FAITH 

THE  tree-top,  high  above  the  barren  field, 
Rising  beyond  the  night's  gray  folds  of  mist. 

Rests  stirless  where  the  upper  air  is  sealed 
To  perfect  silence,  by  the  faint  moon  kiss'd. 

But  the  low  branches,  drooping  to  the  ground, 
Sway  to  and  fro,  as  sways  funereal  plume, 

While  from  their  restless  depths  low  whispers  sound- 
"  We  fear,  we  fear  the  darkness  and  the  gloom  ; 
Dim  forms  beneath  us  pass  and  reappear, 
And  mournful  tongues  are  menacing  us  here." 

Then  from  the  topmost  bough  falls  calm  reply  — 
"  Hush,  hush  !     I  see  the  coming  of  the  morn  ; 

Swiftly  the  silent  Night  is  passing  by, 
And  in  her  bosom  rosy  Dawn  is  borne. 
'T  is  but  your  own  dim  shadows  that  ye  see, 
'T  is  but  your  own  low  moans  that  trouble  ye." 

So  Life  stands,  with  a  twilight  world  around ; 
Faith  turned  serenely  to  the  steadfast  sky, 


C  28  3 

Still  answering  the  heart  that  sweeps  the  ground, 
Sobbing  in  fear,  and  tossing  restlessly  — 

"  Hush,  hush  !     The  Dawn  breaks  o'er  the  East 
ern  sea, 

'T  is  but  thine  own  dim  shadow  troubling  thee." 


C 


SOLITUDE 

ALL  alone  —  alone, 

Calm,  as  on  a  kingly  throne, 

Take  thy  place  in  the  crowded  land, 

Self-centred  in  free  self-command. 

Let  thy  manhood  leave  behind 

The  narrow  ways  of  the  lesser  mind  : 

What  to  thee  are  its  little  cares, 

The  feeble  love  or  the  spite  it  bears  ? 

Let  the  noisy  crowd  go  by : 

In  thy  lonely  watch  on  high, 

Far  from  the  chattering  tongues  of  men, 

Sitting  above  their  call  or  ken, 

Free  from  links  of  manner  and  form 

Thou  shalt  learn  of  the  winged  storm  — 

God  shall  speak  to  thee  out  of  the  sky. 


C    30 


RETROSPECT 

NOT  all  which  we  have  been 

Do  we  remain. 
Nor  on  the  dial-hearts  of  men 

Do  the  years  mark  themselves  in  vain ; 
But  every  cloud  that  in  our  sky  hath  passed, 
Some  gloom  or  glory  hath  upon  us  cast ; 
And  there  have  fallen  from  us,  as  we  traveled, 

Many  a  burden  of  an  ancient  pain  — 
Many  a  tangled  chord  hath  been  unraveled, 

Never  to  bind  our  foolish  heart  again. 
Old  loves  have  left  us  lingeringly  and  slow, 
As  melts  away  the  distant  strain  of  low 
Sweet  music  —  waking  us  from  troubled  dreams, 
Lulling  to  holier  ones  —  that  dies  afar 
On  the  deep  night,  as  if  by  silver  beams 
Claspt  to  the  trembling  breast  of  some  charmed  star. 
And  we  have  stood  and  watched,  all  wistfully, 
While  fluttering  hopes  have  died  out  of  our  lives, 
As  one  who  follows  with  a  straining  eye 
A  bird  that  far,  far  off  fades  in  the  sky, 


C  s1    3 

A  little  rocking  speck — now  lost;  and  still  he  strives 

A  moment  to  recover  it  —  in  vain  ; 

Then  slowly  turns  back  to  his  work  again. 

But  loves  and  hopes  have  left  us  in  their  place. 

Thank  God  !  a  gentle  grace, 

A  patience,  a  belief  in  His  good  time, 

Worth  more  than  all  earth's  joys  to  which  we  climb. 


CHRISTMAS  IN  CALIFORNIA 

CAN  this  be  Christmas  —  sweet  as  May, 
With  drowsy  sun,  and  dreamy  air, 

And  new  grass  pointing  out  the  way 
For  flowers  to  follow,  everywhere  ? 

Has  Time  grown  sleepy  at  his  post, 
And  let  the  exiled  Summer  back, 

Or  is  it  her  regretful  ghost, 
Or  witchcraft  of  the  almanac  ? 

While  wandering  breaths  of  mignonette 

In  at  the  open  window  come, 
I  send  my  thoughts  afar,  and  let 

Them  paint  your  Christmas  Day  at  home. 

Glitter  of  ice,  and  glint  of  frost, 
And  sparkles  in  the  crusted  snow ; 

And  hark !  the  dancing  sleigh-bells,  tost 
The  faster  as  they  fainter  grow. 


C    33     1 

The  creaking  footsteps  hurry  past ; 

The  quick  breath  dims  the  frosty  air  ; 
And  down  the  crisp  road  slipping  fast 

Their  laughing  loads  the  cutters  bear. 

Penciled  against  the  cold  white  sky. 
Above  the  curling  eaves  of  snow, 

The  thin  blue  smoke  lifts  lingeringly, 
As  loath  to  leave  the  mirth  below. 

For  at  the  door  a  merry  din 

Is  heard,  with  stamp  of  feathery  feet, 
And  chattering  girls  come  storming  in, 

To  toast  them  at  the  roaring  grate. 

And  then  from  muff  and  pocket  peer, 
And  many  a  warm  and  scented  nook, 

Mysterious  little  bundles  queer, 

That,  rustling,  tempt  the  curious  look. 

Now  broad  upon  the  southern  walls 

The  mellowed  sun's  great  smile  appears, 

And  tips  the  rough-ringed  icicles 

With  sparks,  that  grow  to  glittering  tears. 


I    34    ] 

Then,  as  the  darkening  day  goes  by, 
The  wind  gets  gustier  without, 

And  leaden  streaks  are  on  the  sky, 
And  whirls  of  snow  are  all  about. 

Soon  firelight  shadows,  merry  crew, 
Along  the  darkling  walls  will  leap 

And  clap  their  hands,  as  if  they  knew 
A  thousand  things  too  good  to  keep. 

Sweet  eyes  with  home's  contentment  filled, 
As  in  the  smouldering  coals  they  peer, 

Haply  some  wondering  pictures  build 
Of  how  I  keep  my  Christmas  here. 

Before  me,  on  the  wide,  warm  bay, 

A  million  azure  ripples  run  ; 
Eound  me  the  sprouting  palm-shoots  lay 

Their  shining  lances  to  the  sun. 

With  glossy  leaves  that  poise  or  swing, 
The  callas  their  white  cups  unfold, 

And  faintest  chimes  of  odor  ring 

From  silver  bells  with  tongues  of  gold. 


C    35    3 

A  languor  of  deliciousness 

Fills  all  the  sea-enchanted  clime  ; 

And  in  the  blue  heavens  meet,  and  kiss, 
The  loitering  clouds  of  summer-time. 

This  fragrance  of  the  mountain  balm 
From  spicy  Lebanon  might  be  ; 

Beneath  such  sunshine's  amber  calm 
Slumbered  the  waves  of  Galilee. 

0  wondrous  gift,  in  goodness  given, 
Each  hour  anew  our  eyes  to  greet, 

An  earth  so  fair  —  so  close  to  Heaven, 
'T  was  trodden  by  the  Master's  feet. 

And  we  —  what  bring  we  in  return  ? 

Only  these  broken  lives,  and  lift 
Them  up  to  meet  His  pitying  scorn, 

As  some  poor  child  its  foolish  gift : 

As  some  poor  child  on  Christmas  Day 
Its  broken  toy  in  love  might  bring ; 

You  could  not  break  its  heart  and  say 

«/ 

You  cared  not  for  the  worthless  thing  ? 


C     36    1 

Ah,  word  of  trust,  His  child  !     That  child 
Who  brought  to  earth  the  life  divine, 

Tells  me  the  Father's  pity  mild 

Scorns  not  even  such  a  gift  as  mine. 

I  am  His  creature,  and  His  air 

I  breathe,  where'er  my  feet  may  stand  ; 
The  angels'  song  rings  everywhere, 

And  all  the  earth  is  Holy  Land. 


37    3 


AMONG  THE  REDWOODS 

FAREWELL  to  such  a  world !  Too  long  I  press 
The  crowded  pavement  with  unwilling  feet. 

Pity  makes  pride,  and  hate  breeds  hatef  ulness, 
And  both  are  poisons.  In  the  forest,  sweet 

The  shade,  the  peace  !     Immensity,  that  seems 

To  drown  the  human  life  of  doubts  and  dreams. 

Far  off  the  massive  portals  of  the  wood, 

Buttressed  with  shadow,  misty-blue,  serene, 

Waited  my  coming.     Speedily  I  stood 

Where  the  dun  wall  rose  roofed  in  plumy  green. 

Dare  one  go  in  ?  —  Glance  backward  !  Dusk  as  night 

Each  column,  fringed  with  sprays  of  amber  light. 

Let  me,  along  this  fallen  bole,  at  rest, 

Turn  to  the  cool,  dim  roof  my  glowing  face. 

Delicious  dark  on  weary  eyelids  prest ! 
Enormous  solitude  of  silent  space, 

But  for  a  low  and  thunderous  ocean  sound, 

Too  far  to  hear,  felt  thrilling  through  the  ground. 


[    38    3 

No  stir  nor  call  the  sacred  hush  profanes  ; 

Save  when  from  some  bare  treetop,  far  on  high, 
Fierce  disputations  of  the  clamorous  cranes 

Fall  muffled,  as  from  out  the  upper  sky. 
So  still,  one  dreads  to  wake  the  dreaming  air, 
Breaks  a  twig  softly,  moves  the  foot  with  care. 

The  hollow  dome  is  green  with  empty  shade, 

Struck  through  with  slanted  shafts  of  afternoon  ; 

Aloft,  a  little  rift  of  blue  is  made, 

Where  slips  a  ghost  that  last  night  was  the  moon  ; 

Beside  its  pearl  a  sea-cloud  stays  its  wing, 

Beneath  a  tilted  hawk  is  balancing. 

The  heart  feels  not  in  every  time  and  mood 
What  is  around  it.    Dull  as  any  stone 

I  lay  ;  then,  like  a  darkening  dream,  the  wood 
Grew  Karnak's  temple,  where  I  breathed  alone 

In  the  awed  air  strange  incense,  and  uprose 

Dim,  monstrous  columns  in  their  dread  repose. 

The  mind  not  always  sees  ;  but  if  there  shine 
A  bit  of  fern-lace  bending  over  moss, 

A  silky  glint  that  rides  a  spider-line, 

On  a  trefoil  two  shadow-spears  that  cross, 


C    39    3 

Three  grasses  that  toss  up  their  nodding  heads, 
With  spring  and  curve  like  clustered  fountain- 
threads,  — 

Suddenly,  through  side  windows  of  the  eye, 
Deep  solitudes,  where  never  souls  have  met ; 

Vast  spaces,  forest  corridors  that  lie 
In  a  mysterious  world,  unpeopled  yet. 

Because  the  outward  eye  elsewhere  was  caught, 

The  awf ulness  and  wonder  come  unsought. 

If  death  be  but  resolving  back  again 
Into  the  world's  deep  soul,  this  is  a  kind 

Of  quiet,  happy  death,  untouched  by  pain 
Or  sharp  reluctance.     For  I  feel  my  mind 

Is  interfused  with  all  I  hear  and  see  ; 

As  much  a  part  of  All  as  cloud  or  tree. 

Listen  !    A  deep  and  solemn  wind  on  high  ; 

The  shafts  of  shining  dust  shift  to  and  fro ; 
The  columned  trees  sway  imperceptibly, 

And  creak  as  mighty  masts  when  trade-winds  blow. 
The  cloudy  sails  are  set ;  the  earth-ship  swings 
Along  the  sea  of  space  to  grander  things. 


OPPORTUNITY 

THIS  I  beheld,  or  dreamed  it  in  a  dream :  — 
There  spread  a  cloud  of  dust  along  a  plain ; 
And  underneath  the  cloud,  or  in  it,  raged 
A  furious  battle,  and  men  yelled,  and  swords 
Shocked  upon  swords  and  shields.    A  prince's  banner 
Wavered,  then  staggered  backward,  hemmed  by  foes. 
A  craven  hung  along  the  battle's  edge, 
And  thought,  "  Had  I  a  sword  of  keener  steel  — 
That  blue  blade  that  the  king's  son  bears,  —  but  this 
Blunt  thing  — ! "  he  snapt  and  flung  it  from  his 

hand, 

And  lowering  crept  away  and  left  the  field. 
Then  came  the  king's  son,  wounded,  sore  bestead, 
And  weaponless,  and  saw  the  broken  sword, 
Hilt-buried  in  the  dry  and  trodden  sand, 
And  ran  and  snatched  it,  and  with  battle-shout 
Lifted  afresh  he  hewed  his  enemy  down, 
And  saved  a  great  cause  that  heroic  day. 


HOME 

THERE  lies  a  little  city  in  the  hills  ; 

White  are  its  roofs,  dim  is  each  dwelling's  door, 

And  peace  with  perfect  rest  its  bosom  fills.         , 

There  the  pure  mist,  the  pity  of  the  sea, 
Comes  as  a  white,  soft  hand,  and  reaches  o'er 
And  touches  its  still  face  most  tenderly. 

Unstirred  and  calm,  amid  our  shifting  years, 
Lo !  where  it  lies,  far  from  the  clash  and  roar, 
With  quiet  distance  blurred,  as  if  thro'  tears. 

0  heart,  that  prayest  so  for  God  to  send 

Some  loving  messenger  to  go  before 

And  lead  the  way  to  where  thy  longings  end, 

Be  sure,  be  very  sure,  that  soon  will  come 
His  kindest  angel,  and  through  that  still  door 
Into  the  Infinite  love  will  lead  thee  home. 


C  42  3 


GOOD  NEWS 

'T  is  just  the  day  to  hear  good  news : 
The  pulses  of  the  world  are  still ; 

The  eager  spring's  unfolding  hues 
Are  drowned  in  floods  of  sun,  that  fill 

The  golden  air,  and  softly  bear 

Deep  sleep  and  silence  everywhere. 
No  ripple  runs  along  that  sea 

Of  warm,  new  grass,  but  all  things  wear 
A  hush  of  calm  expectancy  : 
What  is  coming  to  Heart  and  me  ? 

The  idle  clouds,  that  work  their  wills 
In  moods  of  shadow,  on  the  hills  ; 
The  dusky  hollows  in  the  trees, 
Veiled  with  their  sunlit  'broideries ; 
The  gate  that  has  not  swung,  all  day  ; 

The  dappled  water's  drowsy  gleam ; 
The  tap  of  hammers  far  away, 

And  distant  voices,  like  a  dream,  — 
All  seem  but  visions,  and  a  tone 

Haunts  them  of  tidings  they  refuse  : 


C    43     ^ 

So,  all  the  quiet  afternoon, 
Heart  and  I  we  sit  alone, 

Waiting  for  some  good  news. 

Other  days  had  lif e  to  spare, 

Tasks  to  do,  and  men  to  meet, 
Trifling  wishes,  bits  of  care, 

A  hundred  ways  for  ready  feet ; 

But  this  bright  day  is  all  so  sweet, 
So  sweet,  't  is  sad  in  its  content ; 
As  if  kind  Nature,  as  she  went 
Her  happy  way,  had  paused  a  space, 
Remembered  us,  and  turned  her  face 

As  toward  some  protest  of  distress ; 
Waiting  till  we  should  find  our  place 

In  the  wide  world's  happiness. 
Nothing  stirs  but  some  vague  scent, 

A  breath  of  hidden  violet  — 
The  lonely  last  of  odors  gone  — 

Still  lingering  from  the  morning  dews, 
As  if  it  were  the  earth's  regret 
For  other  such  bright  days  that  went, 
While  Heart  and  I  we  sat  alone, 

Waiting  for  our  good  news. 


C    44    ] 

What  would  you  have  for  your  good  news, 
Foolish  Heart,  0  foolish  Heart  ? 

Some  new  freedom  to  abuse, 
Some  old  trouble  to  depart  ? 

Sudden  flash  of  snowy  wing 

Out  of  yonder  blue,  to  bring 

Messages  so  long  denied  ? 

The  old  greeting  at  your  side, 

The  old  hunger  satisfied  ? 

Nay,  the  distant  will  not  come ; 
To  deaf  ears  all  songs  are  dumb : 

Silly  Heart,  0  silly  Heart ! 
From  within  joy  must  begin  — 

What  could  help  the  thing  thou  art  ? 
Nothing  draweth  from  afar, 
The  gods  can  give  but  what  we  are. 
Heaven  makes  the  mould,  but  soon  and  late 
Man  pours  the  metal  —  that  is  Fate. 
We  must  speak  the  word  we  wait, 

And  give  the  gift  we  die  to  own. 

Wake,  0  Heart !     From  us  alone 
Can  come  our  best  good  news. 


C    45 


REVERIE 

WHETHER  't  was  in  that  dome  of  evening  sky, 
So  hollow  where  the  few  great  stars  were  bright, 

Or  something  in  the  cricket's  lonely  cry, 

Or,  farther  off,  where  swelled  upon  the  night 
The  surf -beat  of  the  symphony's  delight, 

Then  died  in  crumbling  cadences  away  — 

A  dream  of  Schubert's  soul,  too  sweet  to  stay  : 

Whether  from  these,  or  secret  spell  within,  — 
It  seemed  an  empty  waste  of  endless  sea, 

Where  the  waves  mourned  for  what  had  never  been, 
Where  the  wind  sought  for  what  could  never  be  : 
Then  all  was  still,  in  vast  expectancy 

Of  powers  that  waited  but  some  mystic  sign 

To  touch  the  dead  world  to  a  life  divine. 

Me,  too,  it  filled  —  that  breathless,  blind  desire  ; 

And  every  motion  of  the  oars  of  thought 
Thrilled  all  the  deep  in  flashes  —  sparks  of  fire 

In  meshes  of  the  darkling  ripples  caught, 


C    46    ]] 

Swiftly  rekindled,  and  then  quenched  to  naught ; 
And  the  dark  held  me ;  wish  and  will  were  none  : 
A  soul  unformed  and  void,  silent,  alone, 
And  brooded  over  by  the  Infinite  One. 


SPRING 

WHEN  is  it  Spring  ?     When  spirits  rise, 
Pure  crocus-buds,  where  the  snow  dies ; 
When  children  play  outdoors  till  dark ; 
When  the  sap  trickles  up  the  bark ; 
When  bits  of  blue  sky  flit  and  sing, 
Playing  at  birds  —  then  is  it  Spring  ? 

When  is  it  Spring  ?     When  the  bee  hums ; 
When  through  the  opened  window  comes 
The  breeze,  and  summer-license  claims 
To  swing  and  toss  the  picture  frames ; 
When  the  walk  dries ;  the  robins  call ; 
The  brown  hens  doze  by  the  sunny  wall, 
One  foot  drawn  up  to  warm,  or  sing 
With  half -filmed  eyes  —  then  is  it  Spring  ? 

Nay,  each  might  prove  a  treacherous  sign  : 
But  when  old  waters  seem  new  wine ; 
When  all  our  mates  are  half  divine ; 
When  love  comes  easier  than  hate ; 


C    48    ] 

When  we  have  no  more  shrugs  at  Fate, 
But  think  sometimes  of  God,  and  late 
Our  swiftest  serving  seems  to  be ; 
When  bright  ways  numberless  we  see, 
And  thoughts  spring  up,  and  hopes  run  free. 
And  wild  new  dreams  are  all  on  wing, 
Till  we  must  either  fly  or  sing 
With  riotous  life  —  be  sure  't  is  Spring. 


C    49 


FIVE  LIVES 

FIVE  mites  of  monads  dwelt  in  a  round  drop 
That  twinkled  on  a  leaf  by  a  pool  in  the  sun. 
To  the  naked  eye  they  lived  invisible ; 
Specks,  for  a  world  of  whom  the  empty  shell 
Of  a  mustard-seed  had  been  a  hollow  sky. 

One  was  a  meditative  monad,  called  a  sage ; 
And,  shrinking  all  his  mind  within,  he  thought : 
"  Tradition,  handed  down  for  hours  and  hours, 
Tells  that  our  globe,  this  quivering  crystal  world, 
Is  slowly  dying.     What  if,  seconds  hence, 
When  I  am  very  old,  yon  shimmering  dome 
Come  drawing  down  and  down,  till  all  things  end  ?  " 
Then  with  a  weazen  smirk  he  proudly  felt 
No  other  mote  of  God  had  ever  gained 
Such  giant  grasp  of  universal  truth. 

One  was  a  transcendental  monad ;  thin 
And  long  and  slim  in  the  mind ;  and  thus  he  mused : 
"  Oh,  vast,  unfathomable  monad-souls  ! 


C    50    3 

Made  in  the  image  "  —  a  hoarse  frog  croaks  from  the 

pool  — 

"  Hark  !  't  was  some  god,  voicing  his  glorious  thought 
In  thunder  music  !     Yea,  we  hear  their  voice, 
And  we  may  guess  their  minds  from  ours,  their  work. 
Some  taste  they  have  like  ours,  some  tendency 
To  wriggle  about,  and  munch  a  trace  of  scum." 
He  floated  up  on  a  pin-point  bubble  of  gas 
That  burst,  pricked  by  the  air,  and  he  was  gone. 

One  was  a  barren-minded  monad,  called 
A  positivist ;  and  he  knew  positively : 
"  There  is  no  world  beyond  this  certain  drop. 
Prove  me  another !     Let  the  dreamers  dream 
Of  their  faint  dreams,  and  noises  from  without, 
And  higher  and  lower ;  life  is  life  enough." 
Then  swaggering  half  a  hair's  breadth,  hungrily 
He  seized  upon  an  atom  of  bug,  and  fed. 

One  was  a  tattered  monad,  called  a  poet ; 
And  with  shrill  voice  ecstatic  thus  he  sang : 
"  Oh,  the  little  female  monad's  lips  ! 
Oh,  the  little  female  monad's  eyes ! 
Ah,  the  little,  little,  female,  female  monad !  " 


•c  51  : 

The  last  was  a  strong-minded  monadess, 
Who  dashed  amid  the  infusoria. 
Danced  high  and  low,  and  wildly  spun  and  dove 
Till  the  dizzy  others  held  their  breath  to  see. 

But  while  they  led  their  wondrous  little  lives 
Ionian  moments  had  gone  wheeling  by. 
The  burning  drop  had  shrunk  with  fearful  speed  ; 
A  glistening  film  —  't  was  gone ;  the  leaf  was  dry. 
The  little  ghost  of  an  inaudible  squeak 
Was  lost  to  the  frog  that  goggled  from  his  stone ; 
Who,  at  the  huge,  slow  tread  of  a  thoughtful  ox 
Coming  to  drink,  stirred  sideways  fatly,  plunged, 
Launched  backward  twice,  and  all  the  pool  was  still. 


52 


TRANQUILLITY 

WEARY,  and  marred  with  care  and  pain 
And  bruising  days,  the  human  brain 
Draws  wounded  inward,  —  it  might  be 
Some  delicate  creature  of  the  sea, 
That,  shuddering,  shrinks  its  lucent  dome, 
And  coils  its  azure  tendrils  home, 
And  folds  its  filmy  curtains  tight 
At  jarring  contact,  e'er  so  light ; 
But  let  it  float  away  all  free, 
And  feel  the  buoyant,  supple  sea 
Among  its  tinted  streamers  swell, 
Again  it  spreads  its  gauzy  wings, 
And,  waving  its  wan  fringes,  swings 
With  rhythmic  pulse  its  crystal  bell. 

So  let  the  mind,  with  care  overwrought, 
Float  down  the  tranquil  tides  of  thought : 
Calm  visions  of  unending  years 
Beyond  this  little  moment's  fears ; 
Of  boundless  regions  far  from  where 


C    53    3 

The  girdle  of  the  azure  air 

Binds  to  the  earth  the  prisoned  mind. 

Set  free  the  fancy,  till  it  find 

Beyond  our  world  a  vaster  place 

To  thrill  and  vibrate  out  through  space,  — 

As  some  auroral  banner  streams 

Up  through  the  night  in  pulsing  gleams, 

And  floats  and  flashes  o'er  our  dreams ; 

There  let  the  whirling  planet  fall 

Down  —  down,  till  but  a  glimmering  ball, 

A  misty  star :  and  dwindled  so, 

There  is  no  room  for  care,  or  woe, 

Or  wish,  apart  from  that  one  Will 

That  doth  the  worlds  with  music  fill. 


C    54 


MT  PEACE  THOU  ART 

MY  peace  thou  art,  thou  art  my  rest ; 
From  thee  my  pain,  in  thee  so  blest  : 
Enter  mine  eyes,  this  heart  draw  near, 
Oh  come,  oh  dwell  forever  here. 

Enter,  and  close  the  door,  and  come, 
And  be  this  breast  thine  endless  home ; 
Shut  out  all  lesser  care  and  woe, 
I  would  thy  hurt  and  healing  know. 

Clear  light  that  on  my  soul  hath  shone, 
Still  let  it  shine  from  thee  alone, 
From  thee  alone. 


C    55 


HER  FACE 

I  STOOD  in  sombre  dreaming 
Before  her  image  dear, 

And  saw,  in  secret  wonder, 
Living  my  darling  appear. 

About  her  mouth  a  smile  came, 
So  wonderful  and  wise, 

And  tears  of  some  still  sorrow 
Seemed  shining  in  her  eyes. 

My  tears,  they  too  were  flowing, 
Her  face  I  could  not  see, 

And  oh  !  I  cannot  believe  it, 
That  my  love  is  lost  to  me. 


C    56 


DARE  YOU? 

DOUBTING  Thomas  and  loving  John, 
Behind  the  others  walking  on  :  — 

"  Tell  me  now,  John,  dare  you  be 
One  of  the  minority  ? 
To  be  lonely  in  your  thought, 
Never  visited  nor  sought, 
Shunned  with  secret  shrug,  to  go 
Through  the  world  esteemed  its  foe ; 
To  be  singled  out  and  hissed, 
Pointed  at  as  one  unblessed, 
Warned  against  in  whispers  faint, 
Lest  the  children  catch  a  taint ; 
To  bear  off  your  titles  well,  — 
Heretic  and  infidel  ? 
If  you  dare,  come  now  with  me, 
Fearless,  confident,  and  free." 

"  Thomas,  do  you  dare  to  be 
Of  the  great  majority  ? 


c  57  : 

To  be  only,  as  the  rest, 

With  Heaven's  common  comforts  blessed ; 

To  accept,  in  humble  part, 

Truth  that  shines  on  every  heart ; 

Never  to  be  set  on  high, 

Where  the  envious  curses  fly ; 

Never  name  or  fame  to  find, 

Still  outstripped  in  soul  and  mind ; 

To  be  hid,  unless  to  God, 

As  one  grass-blade  in  the  sod, 

Underfoot  with  millions  trod  ? 

If  you  dare,  come  with  us  be 

Lost  in  love's  great  unity." 


C    58 


THE  INVISIBLE 

IF  there  is  naught  but  what  we  see, 

What  is  the  wide  world  worth  to  me  ? 

But  is  there  naught  save  what  we  see  ? 

A  thousand  things  on  every  hand 

My  sense  is  numb  to  understand : 

I  know  we  eddy  round  the  sun ; 

When  has  it  dizzied  any  one  ? 

I  know  the  round  worlds  draw  from  far. 

Through  hollow  systems,  star  to  star ; 

But  who  has  e'er  upon  a  strand 

Of  those  great  cables  laid  his  hand  ? 

What  reaches  up  from  room  to  room 

Of  chambered  earth,  through  glare  or  gloom, 

Through  molten  flood  and  fiery  blast, 

And  binds  our  hurrying  feet  so  fast  ? 

'T  is  the  earth-mother's  love,  that  well 

Will  hold  the  motes  that  round  her  dwell : 

Through  granite  hills  you  feel  it  stir 

As  lightly  as  through  gossamer  : 

Its  grasp  unseen  by  mortal  eyes, 

Its  grain  no  lens  can  analyze. 


C    59    ] 

If  there  is  naught  but  what  we  see, 
The  friend  I  loved  is  lost  to  me : 
He  fell  asleep ;  who  dares  to  say 
His  spirit  is  so  far  away  ? 
Who  knows  what  wings  are  round  about  ? 
These  thoughts  —  who  proves  but  from  without 
They  still  are  whispered  ?     Who  can  think 
They  rise  from  morning's  food  and  drink  ! 
These  thoughts  that  stream  on  like  the  sea, 
And  darkly  beat  incessantly 
The  feet  of  some  great  hope,  and  break, 
And  only  broken  glimmers  make, 
Nor  ever  climb  the  shore,  to  lie 
And  calmly  mirror  the  far  sky, 
And  image  forth  in  tranquil  deeps 
The  secret  that  its  silence  keeps. 

Because  he  never  comes,  and  stands 
And  stretches  out  to  me  both  hands, 
Because  he  never  leans  before 
.The  gate,  when  I  set  wide  the  door 
At  morning,  nor  is  ever  found 
Just  at  my  side  when  I  turn  round, 
Half  thinking  I  shall  meet  his  eyes, 


C  so  3 

From  watching  the  broad  moon-globe  rise, 
For  all  this,  shall  I  homage  pay 
To  Death,  grow  cold  of  heart,  and  say : 
"  He  perished,  and  has  ceased  to  be ; 
Another  comes,  but  never  he  "  ? 
Nay,  by  our  wondrous  being,  nay  ! 
Although  his  face  I  never  see 
Through  aD  the  infinite  To  Be, 
I  know  he  lives  and  cares  for  me. 


C  6l 


A  DRIFTING  CLOUD 

BORN  of  the  shadows  that  it  passes  through, 
Incessantly  becoming  and  destroyed, 

Its  form  unchanged,  its  substance  ever  new, 
Builded  from  its  own  largess  to  the  void ; 

Of  steady  purpose  innerly  aware, 

Yet  blindly  borne  upon  the  streaming  air,  — 

Giving  itself  away,  distributing 

Its  own  abundant  heart  in  splendid  showers, 
But  not  impoverished,  since  its  losses  bring 

Perpetual  renewing  all  the  hours : 
Drifting,  sunlit  or  shadowed,  to  the  sea,  — 

0  cloud,  thou  hast  a  human  destiny ! 


WORDSWORTH 

A  MOONLIT  desert's  yellow  sands, 
Where,  dimmer  than  its  shadow,  stands 
A  motionless  palm-tree  here  and  there, 
And  the  great  stars  through  amber  air 
Burn  calm  as  planets,  and  the  face 
Of  earth  seems  lifting  into  space :  — 

A  tropic  ocean's  starlit  rest, 

Along  whose  smooth  and  sleeping  breast 

Slow  swells  just  stir  the  mirrored  gleams, 

Like  faintest  sighs  in  placid  dreams ; 

All  overhead  the  night,  so  high 

And  hollow  that  there  seems  no  sky, 

But  the  unf  athomed  deeps,  among 

The  worlds  down  endless  arches  swung :  — 

On  moonlit  plain,  and  starlit  sea, 
Is  life's  lost  charm,  tranquillity. 

A  poet  found  it  once,  and  took 
It  home,  and  hid  it  in  a  book, 


C    63    H 

As  one  might  press  a  violet. 

There  still  the  odor  lingers  yet 

Delicious ;  from  your  treasured  tomes 

Reach  down  your  Wordsworth,  and  there  comes 

That  fragrance  which  no  bard  but  he 

E'er  caught,  as  if  the  plain  and  sea 

Had  yielded  their  serenity. 


.   PEACE 

'T  is  not  in  seeking, 

'T  is  not  in  endless  striving, 

Thy  quest  is  found  : 
Be  still  and  listen  ; 
Be  still  and  drink  the  quiet 

Of  all  around. 

Not  for  thy  crying, 

Not  for  thy  loud  beseeching, 

Will  peace  draw  near : 
Rest  with  palms  folded ; 
Rest  with  thine  eyelids  fallen 

Lo  !  peace  is  here. 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  HEART 

EVERY  house  with  its  garret ; 
Lumbered  with  rubbish  and  relics  — 
Spinning-wheels  leaning  in  corners, 
Chests  under  spider-webbed  rafters, 
Brittle  and  yellow  old  letters, 
Grandfather's  things  and  grandmother's. 
There  overhead,  at  the  midnight, 
Noises  of  creaking  and  stepping 

Startle  the  hush  of  the  chambers  — 

. 
Ghosts  on  their  tip-toes  repassing. 

Every  house  with  its  garden ; 
Some  little  plot  —  a  half -acre, 
Or  a  mere  strip  by  the  windows, 
Flower-beds  and  narrow  box-borders, 
Something  spicily  fragrant, 
Something  azure  and  golden. 
There  the  small  feet  of  the  sparrow 
Star  the  fresh  mould  round  the  roses  ; 
And,  in  the  shadowy  moonlight, 
Wonderful  secrets  are  whispered. 


C     66    3 

Every  heart  with  its  garret, 
Cumbered  with  relics  and  rubbish  — 
Wheels  that  are  silent  forever, 
Leaves  that  are  faded  and  broken, 
Foolish  old  wishes  and  fancies, 
Cobwebs  of  doubt  and  suspicion  — 
Useless,  unbeautiful,  growing 
Year  by  year  thicker  and  faster : 
Naught  but  a  fire  or  a  moving 
Ever  can  clear  it,  or  clean  it. 

Every  heart  with  its  garden ; 
Some  little  corner  kept  sacred, 
Fragrant  and  pleasant  with  blossoms ; 
There  the  forget-me-nots  cluster, 
And  pure  love-violets,  hidden, 
Guessed  but  by  sweetness  all  round  them ; 
Some  little  strip  in  the  sunshine, 
Cheery  and  warm,  for  above  it 
Rest  the  deep,  beautiful  heavens, 
Blue,  and  beyond,  and  forever. 


C    67 


THE  FOOL'S  PRAYER 

THE  royal  feast  was  done ;  the  King 
Sought  some  new  sport  to  banish  care, 

And  to  his  jester  cried  :  "  Sir  Fool, 

Kneel  now,  and  make  for  us  a  prayer ! ' 

The  jester  doffed  his  cap  and  bells, 
And  stood  the  mocking  court  before ; 

They  could  not  see  the  bitter  smile 
Behind  the  painted  grin  he  wore. 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  bent  his  knee 
Upon  the  monarch's  silken  stool ; 

His  pleading  voice  arose :  "  0  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

"  No  pity,  Lord,  could  change  the  heart 

From  red  with  wrong  to  white  as  wool ; 
The  rod  must  heal  the  sin  :  but,  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 


C  68  : 

"  'T  is  not  by  guilt  the  onward  sweep 

Of  truth  and  right,  0  Lord,  we  stay ; 
'T  is  by  our  follies  that  so  long 

We  hold  the  earth  from  heaven  away. 

"  These  clumsy  feet,  still  in  the  mire, 

Go  crushing  blossoms  without  end ; 
These  hard,  well-meaning  hands  we  thrust 
Among  the  heart-strings  of  a  friend. 

"  The  ill-timed  truth  we  might  have  kept  — 

Who  knows  how  sharp  it  pierced  and  stung  ? 
The  word  we  had  not  sense  to  say  — 
Who  knows  how  grandly  it  had  rung  ? 

"  Our  faults  no  tenderness  should  ask, 

The  chastening  stripes  must  cleanse  them  all ; 
But  for  our  blunders  —  oh,  in  shame 
Before  the  eyes  of  heaven  we  fall. 

"  Earth  bears  no  balsam  for  mistakes; 

Men  crown  the  knave,  and  scourge  the  tool 
That  did  his  will;  but  Thou,  0  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool !  " 


C    69    ] 

The  room  was  hushed ;  in  silence  rose* 
The  King,  and  sought  his  gardens  cool, 

And  walked  apart,  and  murmured  low, 
"  Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool !  " 


C    70 


BUT  FOR  HIM 

DUMB  and  still  was  the  heart  of  man 

By  the  river  of  Time : 

Far  it  stretched,  and  wide  and  free, 

This  rapid  river ;  on  it  ran, 

Through  many  a  land  and  many  a  clime, 

On  and  on,  and  no  tide  turned, 

Down  and  down  to  Eternity. 

Dumb  and  still  —  but  the  man's  heart  yearned 
For  a  voice  to  break  the  silence  long ; 
And  there  by  the  side  of  the  heart  of  man 
Stood  the  spirit  of  Song. 

Then  the  waves  laughed 

Down  the  river  of  Time ; 

And  the  west  wind  and  the  south  wind  sang, 

And  the  world  was  glad, 

For  now  it  had 

A  voice  to  utter,  in  jocund  chime, 

The  joy  it  quaffed 

From  the  river  of  Time. 


C    71     ] 

But  when  the  song  grew  low  and  sad, 

The  trees  drooped, 

The  flowers  were  dim, 

And  a  dark  cloud  down  from  heaven  stooped ; 

The  wind  mourned,  and  tear-drops  fell ; 

And  the  world  cried,  grieving,  "  But  for  him 

We  had  not  known  but  all  was  well !  " 


A  REPLY 

To  the  mother  of  the  world, 
Not  for  help  or  light  or  grace, 
Basely  I  for  comfort  came  : 
And  I  brought  my  craven  fears, 
Late  amends  of  useless  tears, 
Brought  my  stumbling  feet  so  lame, 
Hopes  with  weary  pinions  furled, 
Every  longing  unattained, 
All  my  love  with  self-love  stained,  — 
Told  them  to  her  grave,  mild  face. 

And  the  mother  of  the  world 
Spake,  and  answered  unto  me, 
In  the  brook  that  past  me  purled ; 
In  the  bluebird's  heavenly  hue, 
When  beyond  his  downward  swerve 
Up  he  glanced,  a  sweep  of  blue  ; 
In  the  sunshine's  shifting  spray, 
Drifted  in  beneath  the  tree 
Where  I  sheltered,  lest  its  flood 


C    73    3 

There  outside  should  drown  my  blood ; 
In  the  cloud-pearl's  melting  curve ; 
In  the  little  odorous  thrill 
Trembling  from  each  blossom-bell ; 
In  the  silence  of  the  sky, 
And  the  thoughts  that  from  it  fell. 
Floating  as  a  snowflake  will,  — 
So  the  mother  answered  me : 

Child !  it  is  not  thine  to  see 
Why  at  all  thy  life  should  be, 
Wherefore  thou  must  thus  abide, 
Foiled,  repulsed,  unsatisfied, 
Thou  hast  not  to  prove  thy  right 
To  the  earth-room  and  the  light. 
Thou  hast  not  to  justify 
Thought  of  mine  to  human  eye. 
I  have  borne  thee  !     Trust  to  me  ! 
Strength  and  help  are  in  thy  deed ; 
Comfort  thou  shalt  scorn  to  need. 
Careless  what  shall  come  to  thee, 
Look  but  what  thy  work  shall  be." 


[     74 


THE  DESERTER 

BLINDEST  and  most  frantic  prayer, 
Clutching  at  a  senseless  boon, 

His  that  begs,  in  mad  despair, 

Death  to  come ;  —  he  comes  so  soon  ! 

Like  a  reveler  that  strains 

Lip  and  throat  to  drink  it  up  — 

The  last  ruby  that  remains, 
One  red  droplet  in  the  cup. 

Like  a  child  that,  sullen,  mute, 

Sulking  spurns,  with  chin  on  breast, 

Of  the  Tree  of  Life  a  fruit, 

His  gift  of  whom  he  is  the  guest. 

Outcast  on  the  thither  shore, 
Open  scorn  to  him  shall  give 

Souls  that  heavier  burdens  bore  :  — 
"  See  the  wretch  that  dared  not  live  ! 


THE  REFORMER 

BEFORE  the  monstrous  wrong  he  sets  him  down  — 
One  man  against  a  stone- walled  city  of  sin. 
For  centuries  those  walls  have  been  a-building ; 
Smooth  porphyry,  they  slope  and  coldly  glass 
The  flying  storm  and  wheeling  sun.     No  chink, 
No  crevice  lets  the  thinnest  arrow  in. 
He  fights  alone,  and  from  the  cloudy  ramparts 
A  thousand  evil  faces  gibe  and  jeer  him. 
Let  him  lie  down  and  die  :  what  is  the  right, 
And  where  is  justice,  in  a  world  like  this  ? 
But  by  and  by,  earth  shakes  herself,  impatient ; 
And  down,  in  one  great  roar  of  ruin,  crash 
Watch-tower  and  citadel  and  battlements. 
When  the  red  dust  has  cleared,  the  lonely  soldier 
Stands  with  strange  thoughts  beneath  the  friendly 
stars. 


C    76    ] 


DESIRE  OF  SLEEP 

IT  is  not  death  I  mean, 

Nor  even  f  orgetf  ulness, 
But  healthful  human  sleep, 
Dreamless,  and  still,  and  deep, 
Where  I  would  hide  and  glean 
Some  heavenly  balm  to  bless. 

I  would  not  die  ;  I  long 

To  live,  to  see  my  days 
Bud  once  again,  and  bloom, 
And  make  amidst  them  room 
For  thoughts  like  birds  of  song, 
Out-winging  happy  ways. 

I  would  not  even  forget : 
Only,  a  little  while  — 
Just  now  —  I  cannot  bear 
Eemembrance  with  despair ; 
The  years  are  coming  yet 
When  I  shall  look,  and  smile. 


c  77  n 

Not  now  —  oh,  not  to-night ! 

Too  clear  on  midnight's  deep 
Come  voice  and  hand  and  touch ; 
The  heart  aches  overmuch  — 

Hush  sounds  !  shut  out  the  light ! 
A  little  I  must  sleep. 


HEE  EXPLANATION 

So  you  have  wondered  at  me,  —  guessed  in  vain 
What  the  real  woman  is  you  know  so  well  ? 

I  am  a  lost  illusion.     Some  strange  spell 
Once  made  your  friend  there,  with  his  fine  disdain 
Of  fact,  conceive  me  perfect.     He  would  fain 

(But  could  not)  see  me  always,  as  befell 

His  dream  to  see  me,  plucking  asphodel, 
In  saffron  robes,  on  some  celestial  plain. 
All  that  I  was  he  marred  and  flung  away 

In  quest  of  what  I  was  not,  could  not  be,  — 

Lilith,  or  Helen,  or  Antigone. 
Still  he  may  search ;  but  I  have  had  my  day, 

And  now  the  Past  is  all  the  part  for  me 
That  this  world's  empty  stage  has  left  to  play. 


C    79 


EVE'S  DAUGHTER    ( 

I  WAITED  in  the  little  sunny  room  : 

The  cool  breeze  waved  the  window-lace,  at  play, 
The  white  rose  on  the  porch  was  all  in  bloom, 

And  out  upon  the  bay 
I  watched  the  wheeling  sea-birds  go  and  come. 

"  Such  an  old  friend,  —  she  would  not  make  me  stay 

While  she  bound  up  her  hair."     I  turned,  and  lo, 
Danae  in  her  shower  !  and  fit  to  slay 

All  a  man's  hoarded  prudence  at  a  blow : 
Gold  hair,  that  streamed  away 

As  round  some  nymph  a  sunlit  fountain's  flow. 
"  She  would  not  make  me  wait !  "  —  but  well  I  know 

She  took  a  good  half -hour  to  loose  and  lay 
Those  locks  in  dazzling  disarrangement  so ! 


C  8o  3 


BLINDFOLD 

WHAT  do  we  know  of  the  world,  as  we  grow  so  old 

and  wise  ? 
Do  the  years,  that  still  the  heart-beats,  quicken  the 

drowsy  eyes  ? 
At  twenty  we  thought  we  knew  it,  —  the  world  there, 

at  our  feet ; 
We  thought  we  had  found  its  bitter,  we  knew  we  had 

found  its  sweet. 
Now  at  forty  and  fifty,  what  do  we  make  of  the 

world? 
There  in  her  sand  she  crouches,  the  Sphinx  with  her 

gray  wings  furled. 

Soul  of  a  man  I  know  not ;  who  knoweth,  can  fore 
tell, 
And  what  can  I  read  of  fate,  even  of  self  I  have 

learned  so  well  ? 
Heart  of  a  woman  I  know  not :  how  should  I  hope  to 

know, 
I  that  am  foiled  by  a  flower,  or  the  stars  of  the  silent 

snow; 


I  that  have  never  guessed  the  mind  of  the  bright-eyed 

bird, 
Whom  even  the  dull  rocks  cheat,  and  the  whirlwind's 

awful  word  ? 
Let  me  loosen  the  fillet  of  clay  from  the  shut  and 

darkened  lid, 
For  life  is  a  blindfold  game,  and  the  Voice  from  view 

is  hid. 

I  face  him  as  best  I  can,  still  groping,  here  and  there, 
For  the  hand  that  has  touched  me  lightly,  the  lips  that 

have  said,  "  Declare  !  " 
Well,  I  declare  him  my  friend,  —  the  friend  of  the 

whole  sad  race ; 
And  oh,  that  the  game  were  over,  and  I  might  see  his 

face! 
But 't  is  much,  though  I  grope  in  blindness,  the  Voice 

that  is  hid  from  view 
May  be  heard,  may  be  even  loved,  in  a  dream  that 

may  come  true. 


RECALL 

"  LOVE  me,  or  I  am  slain  !  "  I  cried,  and  meant 
Bitterly  true  each  word.     Nights,  morns,  slipped  by, 
Moons,,  circling  suns,  yet  still  alive  am  I ; 
But  shame  to  me,  if  my  best  time  be  spent 

On  this  perverse,  blind  passion  !     Are  we  sent 
Upon 'a  planet  just  to  mate  and  die, 
A  man  no  more  than  some  pale  butterfly 
That  yields  his  day  to  nature's  sole  intent  ? 

Or  is  my  life  but  Marguerite's  ox-eyed  flower, 

That  I  should  stand  and  pluck  and  fling  away, 

One  after  one,  the  petal  of  each  hour, 

Like  a  love-dreamy  girl,  and  only  say, 

"  Loves  me,"  and  "  loves  me  not,"  and  "  loves  me  "  ? 

Nay! 
Let  the  man's  mind  awake  to  manhood's  power. 


STRANGE 

HE  died  at  night.     Next  day  they  came 
To  weep  and  praise  him  :  sudden  fame 
These  suddenly  warm  comrades  gave. 
They  called  him  pure,  they  called  him  brave ; 
One  praised  his  heart,  and  one  his  brain  ; 
All  said,  You  'd  seek  his  like  in  vain,  — 
Gentle,  and  strong,  and  good :  none  saw 
In  all  his  character  a  flaw. 

At  noon  he  wakened  from  his  trance, 
Mended,  was  well !     They  looked  askance ; 
Took  his  hand  coldly ;  loved  him  not, 
Though  they  had  wept  him ;  quite  forgot 
His  virtues ;  lent  an  easy  ear 
To  slanderous  tongues ;  professed  a  fear 
He  was  not  what  he  seemed  to  be ; 
Thanked  God  they  were  not  such  as  he ; 
Gave  to  his  hunger  stones  for  bread ; 
And  made  him,  living,  wish  him  dead. 


WIEGENLIED 

BE  still  and  sleep,  my  soul ! 

Now  gentle-footed  Night 
In  softly  shadowed  stole, 

Holds  all  the  day  from  sight. 

Why  shouldst  thou  lie  and  stare 
Against  the  dark,  and  toss, 

And  live  again  thy  care, 
Thine  agony  and  loss? 

'T  was  given  thee  to  live, 
And  thou  hast  lived  it  all ; 

Let  that  suffice,  nor  give 

One  thought  what  may  befall. 

Thou  hast  no  need  to  wake, 

Thou  art  no  sentinel ; 
Love  all  the  care  will  take, 

And  Wisdom  watcheth  well. 


C    85    3 

Weep  not,  think  not,  but  rest ! 

The  stars  in  silence  roll ; 
On  the  world's  mother-breast, 

Be  still  and  sleep,  my  soul ! 


AN  ANCIENT  ERROR 

He  that  has  and  a  little  tiny  wit,  — 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

LEAR 

THE  "  sobbing  wind/'  the  "  weeping  rain/' 

'T  is  time  to  give  the  lie 
To  these  old  superstitions  twain, 

That  poets  sing  and  sigh. 

Taste  the  sweet  drops,  —  no  tang  of  brine ; 

Feel  them,  —  they  do  not  burn  ; 
The  daisy-buds,  whereon  they  shine, 

Laugh,  and  to  blossoms  turn. 

There  is  no  natural  grief  or  sin ; 

'T  is  we  have  flung  the  pall, 
And  brought  the  sound  of  sorrow  in. 

Pan  is  not  dead  at  all. 

The  merry  Pan  !  his  blithesome  look 
Twinkles  through  sun  and  rain ; 


i  87  3 

By  ivied  rock  and  rippled  brook 
He  pipes  his  jocund  strain. 

If  winds  have  wailed  and  skies  wept  tears, 

To  poet's  vision  dim, 
'T  was  that  his  own  sobs  filled  his  ears, 

His  weeping  blinded  him. 

'T  is  laughing  breeze  and  singing  shower, 

As  ever  heart  could  need ; 
And  who  with  "  hey  "  and  "  ho  "  must  lower 

Hath  "  tiny  wit "  indeed. 


c: 


TO  A  FACE  AT  A  CONCERT 

WHEN  the  low  music  makes  a  dusk  of  sound 

About  us,  and  the  viol  or  far-off  horn 
Swells  out  above  it  like  a  wind  forlorn, 
That  wanders  seeking  something  never  found, 

What  phantom  in  your  brain,  on  what  dim  ground, 
Traces  its  shadowy  lines  ?     What  vision,  born 
Of  unfulfillment,  fades  in  mere  self -scorn, 
Or  grows,  from  that  still  twilight  stealing  round  ? 

When  the  lids  droop  and  the  hands  lie  unstrung, 
Dare  one  divine  your  dream,  while  the  chords  weave 
Their  cloudy  woof  from  key  to  key,  and  die,  — 

Is  it  one  fate  that,  since  the  world  was  young, 
Has  followed  man,  and  makes  him  half  believe 
The  voice  of  instruments  a  human  cry  ? 


C    89     3 


TWO  VIEWS  OF  IT 

"  0  WORLD,  0  glorious  world,  good-by  ! " 
Time  but  to  think  it  —  one  wild  cry 
Unuttered,  a  heart-wrung  farewell 
To  sky  and  wood  and  flashing  stream, 
All  gathered  in  a  last  swift  gleam, 
As  the  crag  crumbled,  and  he  fell. 

But  lo  !  the  thing  was  wonderful ! 
After  the  echoing  crash,  a  lull : 
The  great  fir  on  the  slope  below 
Had  spread  its  mighty  mother-arm, 
And  caught  him,  springing  like  a  bow 
Of  steel,  and  lowered  him  safe  from  harm, 

'T  was  but  an  instant's  dark  and  daze : 
Then,  as  he  felt  each  limb  was  sound, 
And  slowly  from  the  swooning  haze 
The  dizzy  trees  stood  still  that  whirled, 
And  the  familiar  sky  and  ground, 
There  grew  with  them  across  his  brain 
A  dull  regret :  "  So,  world,  dark  world, 
You  are  come  back  again  ! " 


I    90    3 


THE  LINKS  OF  CHANCE 

HOLDING  apoise  in  air 

My  twice-dipped  pen,  —  for  some  tense  thread  of 
thought 

Had  snapped,  —  mine  ears  were  half  aware 
Of  passing  wheels  ;  eyes  saw,  but  mind  saw  not, 

My  sun-shot  linden.     Suddenly,  as  I  stare, 
Two  shifting  visions  grow  and  fade  unsought :  — 

Noon-blaze :  the  broken  shade 
Of  ruins  strown.     Two  Tartar  lovers  sit : 

She  gazing  on  the  ground,  face  turned,  afraid ; 
And  he,  at  her.     Silence  is  all  his  wit. 

She  stoops,  picks  up  a  pebble  of  green  jade 
To  toss :  they  watch  its  flight,  unheeding  it. 

Ages  have  rolled  away  ; 

And  round  the  stone,  by  chance,  if  chance  there  be, 
Sparse  soil  has  caught ;  a  seed,  wind-lodged  one 


Grown  grass  ;  shrubs  sprung  ;  at  last  a  tufted  tree : 

Lo  !  over  its  snake  root  yon  conquering  Bey 
Trips  backward,  fighting  —  and  half  Asia  free  ! 


91 


'WORDS,  WORDS,  WORDS" 

(TO  ONE  WHO  FLOtTTED  THEM  AS  VAIN) 
I 

AM  I  not  weary  of  them  as  your  heart 
Or  ever  Hamlet's  was  ?  —  the  empty  ones, 
Mere  breath  of  passing  air,  mere  hollow  tones 
That  idle  winds  to  broken  reeds  impart. 

Have  they  not  cursed  my  life  ?  —  sounds  I  mistook 
For  sacred  verities,  —  love,  faith,  delight, 
And  the  sweet  tales  that  women  tell  at  night, 
When  darkness  hides  the  falsehood  of  the  look. 

I  was  the  one  of  all  Ulysses'  crew 

(What  time  he  stopped  their  ears)  that  leaped  and  fled 

Unto  the  sirens,  for  the  honey-dew 

Of  their  dear  songs.     The  poets  me  have  fed 
With  the  same  poisoned  fruit.     And  even  you,  — 
Did  you  not  pluck  them  for  me  in  days  dead  ? 


C    93 


II 

Nay,  they  do  bear  a  blessing  and  a  power,  — 
Great  words  and  true,  that  bridge  from  soul  to  soul 
The  awful  cloud-depths  that  betwixt  us  roll. 
I  will  not  have  them  so  blasphemed.     This  hour, 

This  little  hour  of  life,  this  lean  to-day,  — 
What  were  it  worth  but  for  those  mighty  dreams 
That  sweep  from  down  the  past  on  sounding  streams 
Of  such  high-thoughted  words  as  poets  say  ? 

What,  but  for  Shakespeare's  and  for  Homer's  lay, 
And  bards  whose  sacred  names  all  lips  repeat  ? 
Words,  —  only  words ;  yet,  save  for  tongue  and  pen 

Of  those  great  givers  of  them  unto  men, 
And  burdens  they  still  bear  of  grave  or  sweet, 
This  world  were  but  for  beasts,  a  darkling  den. 


THE  THRUSH 

THE  thrush  sings  high  on  the  topmost  bough,  - 
Low,  louder,  low  again ;  and  now 
He  has  changed  his  tree,  —  you  know  not  how, 
For  you  saw  no  flitting  wing. 

All  the  notes  of  the  forest-throng, 
Flute,  reed,  and  string,  are  in  his  song; 
Never  a  fear  knows  he,  nor  wrong, 
Nor  a  doubt  of  anything. 

Small  room  for  care  in  that  soft  breast ; 
All  weather  that  comes  is  to  him  the  best, 
While  he  sees  his  mate  close  on  her  nest, 
And  the  woods  are  full  of  spring. 

He  has  lost  his  last  year's  love,  I  know,  — 
He,  too,  —  but 't  is  little  he  keeps  of  woe ; 
For  a  bird  forgets  in  a  year,  and  so 
No  wonder  the  thrush  can  sing. 


C    94 


CARPE  DIEM 

How  the  dull  thought  smites  me  dumb, 
"  It  will  come  !  "  and  "  It  will  come  !  " 
But  to-day  I  am  not  dead ; 
Life  in  hand  and  foot  and  head 
Leads  me  on  its  wondrous  ways. 
'T  is  in  such  poor,  common  days, 
Made  of  morning,  noon,  and  night, 
Golden  truth  has  leaped  to  light, 
Potent  messages  have  sped, 
Torches  flashed  with  running  rays, 
World-runes  started  on  their  flight. 

Let  it  come,  when  come  it  must ; 
But  To-Day  from  out  the  dust 
Blooms  and  brightens  like  a  flower, 
Fair  with  love,  and  faith,  and  power. 
Pluck  it  with  unclouded  will, 
From  the  great  tree  Igdrasil. 


[    95 


SERVICE 

FRET  not  that  the  day  is  gone. 
And  thy  task  is  still  undone. 
'T  was  not  thine,  it  seems,  at  all : 
Near  to  thee  it  chanced  to  fall, 
Close  enough  to  stir  thy  brain, 
And  to  vex  thy  heart  in  vain. 
Somewhere,  in  a  nook  forlorn, 
Yesterday  a  babe  was  born  : 
He  shall  do  thy  waiting  task ; 
All  thy  questions  he  shall  ask, 
And  the  answers  will  be  given, 
Whispered  lightly  out  of  heaven. 
His  shall  be  no  stumbling  feet, 
Falling  where  they  should  be  fleet : 
He  shall  hold  no  broken  clue ; 

Friends  shall  unto  him  be  true ; 

• 

Men  shall  love  him ;  falsehood's  aim 
Shall  not  shatter  his  good  name. 
Day  shall  nerve  his  arm  with  light, 
Slumber  soothe  him  all  the  night ; 


C    96    3 

Summer's  peace  and  winter's  storm 
Help  him  all  his  will  perform. 
'T  is  enough  of  joy  for  thee 
His  high  service  to  foresee. 


I    97 


THE  BOOK  OF  HOURS 

As  one  who  reads  a  tale  writ  in  a  tongue 

He  only  partly  knows,  —  runs  over  it 

And  follows  but  the  story,  losing  wit 
And  charm,  and  half  the  subtle  links  among 
The  haps  and  harms  that  the  book's  folk  beset,  — 

So  do  we  with  our  life.    Night  comes,  and  morn ; 

I  know  that  one  has  died  and  one  is  born ; 
That  this  by  love  and  that  by  hate  is  met. 
But  all  the  grace  and  glory  of  it  fail 

To  touch  me,  and  the  meanings  they  enfold. 
The  Spirit  of  the  World  hath  told  the  tale, 

And  tells  it :  and  't  is  very  wise  and  old. 
But  o'er  the  page  there  is  a  mist  and  veil : 

I  do  not  know  the  tongue  in  which  't  is  told. 


C 


THE  WONDERFUL  THOUGHT 

IT  comes  upon  me  in  the  woods. 
Of  all  the  days,  this  day  in  May  : 

When  wind  and  rain  can  never  think 
Whose  turn  't  is  now  to  have  its  way. 

It  finds  me  as  I  lie  along, 

Blinking  up  through  the  swaying  trees, 
Half  wondering  if  a  man  who  reads 

"  Blue  sky  "  in  books  that  color  sees,  — 

So  fathomless  and  pure  :  as  if 

All  loveliest  azure  things  have  gone 

To  heaven  that  way, — the  flowers,  the  sea,  — 
And  left  their  ^olor  there  alone. 

Hark !  leaning  on  each  other's  arms, 
The  pines  are  whispering  in  the  breeze, 

Whispering,  —  then  hushing,  half  in  awe 
Their  legends  of  primeval  seas. 


C    99    3 

The  wild  things  of  the  wood  come  out, 
And  stir  or  hide,  as  wild  things  will, 

Like  thoughts  that  may  not  be  pursued, 
But  come  if  one  is  calm  and  still. 

Deep  hemlocks  down  the  gorge  shut  in 
Their  caves  with  hollow  shadow  filled, 

Where  little  feathered  anchorites 
Behind  a  sunlit  lattice  build. 

And  glimmering  through  that  lace  of  boughs, 
Dancing,  while  they  hang  darker  still, 

Along  the  restful  river  shines 

The  restless  light's  incessant  thrill : 

As  in  some  sober,  silent  soul, 

Whose  life  appears  a  tranquil  stream, 

Through  some  unguarded  rift  you  catch 
The  wildest  wishes,  all  agleam. 

But  to  my  thought  —  so  wonderful ! 

I  know  if  once  't  were  told,  all  men 
Would  feel  it  warm  at  heart,  and  life 

Be  more  than  it  had  ever  been. 


'T  would  make  these  flowerless  woods  laugh  out 

With  every  garden-color  bright, 
Where  only,  now,  the  dogwood  hangs 

Its  scattered  cloud  of  ghostly  white, 

Those  birds  would  hold  no  more  aloof :  — 
How  know  they  I  am  here,  so  well  ? 

'T  is  yon  woodpecker's  warning  note ; 
He  is  their  seer  and  sentinel. 

They  use  him,  but  his  faithfulness 
Perchance  in  human  fashion  pay,  — 

Laugh  in  their  feathers  at  his  voice, 
And  ridicule  his  stumbling  way. 

That  far-off  flute-note  —  hours  in  vain 
I  've  followed  it,  so  shy  and  fleet ; 

But  if  I  found  him,  well  I  know 

His  song  would  seem  not  half  so  sweet. 

The  swift,  soft  creatures,  —  how  I  wish 
They  'd  trust  me,  and  come  perch  upon 

My  shoulders  !     Do  they  guess  that  then 
Their  charm  would  be  forever  gone  ? 


c  i°i  3 

But  still  I  prate  of  sight  and  sound ; 

Ah,  well,  't  is  always  so  in  rhyme ; 
The  idle  fancies  find  a  voice, 

The  wise  thought  waits  —  another  time. 


102 


NATURE  AND  HER  CHILD 

As  some  poor  child  whose  soul  is  windowless, 
Having  not  hearing,  speech,  nor  sight,  sits  lone 
In  her  dark,  silent  life,  till  cometh  one 
With  a  most  patient  heart,  who  tries  to  guess 

Some  hidden  way  to  help  her  helplessness, 

And,  yearning  for  that  spirit  shut  in  stone, 

A  crystal  that  has  never  seen  the  sun, 

Smooths  now  the  hair,  and  now  the  hand  will  press, 

Or  gives  a  key  to  touch,  then  letters  raised, 

Its  symbol ;  then  an  apple,  or  a  ring, 

And  again  letters,  —  so,  all  blind  and  dumb, 

We  wait ;  the  kindly  smiles  of  summer  come, 

And  soft  winds  touch  our  cheek,  and  thrushes  sing ; 

The  world-heart  yearns,  but  we  stand  dull  and  dazed, 


103 


THE  FOSTER-MOTHER 

As  some  poor  Indian  woman 
A  captive  child  receives, 

And  warms  it  in  her  bosom, 
And  o'er  its  weeping  grieves ; 

And  comforts  it  with  kisses, 
And  strives  to  understand 

Its  eager,  lonely  babble, 
Fondling  the  little  hand, — 

So  Earth,  our  foster-mother, 
Yearns  for  us,  with  her  great 

Wild  heart,  and  croons  in  murmurs 
Low,  inarticulate. 

She  knows  we  are  white  captives, 

Her  dusky  race  above, 
But  the  deep,  childless  bosom 

Throbs  with  its  brooding  love. 


C   104 


TRUTH  AT  LAST 

DOES  a  man  ever  give  up  hope,  I  wonder,  — 
Face  the  grim  fact,  seeing  it  clear  as  day  ? 
When  Bennen  saw  the  snow  slip,  heard  its  thunder 
Low,  louder,  roaring  round  him,  felt  the  speed 
Grow  swifter  as  the  avalanche  hurled  downward, 
Did  he  for  just  one  heart-throb  —  did  he  indeed 
Know  with  all  certainty,  as  they  swept  onward, 
There  was  the  end,  where  the  crag  dropped  away  ? 
Or  did  he  think,  even  till  they  plunged  and  fell, 
Some  miracle  would  stop  them  ?    Nay,  they  tell 
That  he  turned  round,  face  forward,  calm  and  pale, 
Stretching  his  arms  out  toward  his  native  vale 
As  if  in  mute,  unspeakable  farewell, 
And  so  went  down.  —  ?T  is  something,  if  at  kst, 
Though  only  for  a  flash,  a  man  may  see 
Clear-eyed  the  future  as  he  sees  the  past, 
From  doubt,  or  fear,  or  hope's  illusion  free. 


105 


"QUEM  METUI  MORITURA?" 

IV.  604 


WHAT  need  have  I  to  fear  —  so  soon  to  die  ? 
Let  me  work  on,  not  watch  and  wait  in  dread  : 
What  will  it  matter,  when  that  I  am  dead, 

That  they  bore  hate  or  love  who  near  me  lie  ? 

'T  is  but  a  lifetime,  and  the  end  is  nigh 
At  best  or  worst.     Let  me  lift  up  my  head 
And  firmly,  as  with  inner  courage,  tread 

Mine  own  appointed  way,  on  mandates  high. 

Pain  could  but  bring,  from  all  its  evil  store, 

The  close  of  pain  :  hate's  venom  could  but  kill  ; 

Kepulse,  defeat,  desertion,  could  no  more. 
Let  me  have  lived  my  life,  not  cowered  until 

The  unhindered  and  unhastened  hour  was  here. 

So  soon  —  what  is  there  in  the  world  to  fear  ? 


C  lo6 


A  MORNING  THOUGHT 

WHAT  if  some  morning,  when  the  stars  were  paling, 
And  the  dawn  whitened,  and  the  East  was  clear, 

Strange  peace  and  rest  fell  on  me  from  the  presence 
Of  a  benignant  Spirit  standing  near : 

And  I  should  tell  him,  as  he  stood  beside  me, 

"  This  is  our  Earth  —  most  friendly  Earth,  and 
fair; 

Daily  its  sea  and  shore  through  sun  and  shadow 
Faithful  it  turns,  robed  in  its  azure  air  : 

"  There  is  blest  living  here,  loving  and  serving, 
And  quest  of  truth,  and  serene  friendships  dear ; 

But  stay  not,  Spirit !  Earth  has  one  destroyer,  — 
His  name  is  Death :  flee,  lest  he  find  thee  here  !  " 

And  what  if  then,  while  the  still  morning  brightened, 
And  freshened  in  the  elm  the  Summer's  breath, 

Should  gravely  smile  on  me  the  gentle  angel 

And  take  my  hand  and  say,  "  My  name  is  Death." 


I  i°7  ] 
THE  HERMITAGE 

CALIFORNIA,  BAY  OF  SAN  FRANCISCO,  1866 


A  LIFE, — a  common,  cleanly,  quiet  life, 
Full  of  good  citizenship  and  repute, 
New,  but  with  promise  of  prosperity, — 
A  well-bred,  fair,  young-gentlemanly  life, — 
What  business  had  a  girl  to  bring  her  eyes, 
And  her  blonde  hair,  and  her  clear,  ringing  voice, 
And  break  up  life,  as  a  bell  breaks  a  dream? 
Had  Love  Christ's  wrath,  and  did  this  life  sell  doves 
In  the  world's  temple,  that  Love  scourged  it  forth 
Beyond  the  gates?    Within,  the  worshipers, — 
Without,  the  waste,  and  the  hill-country,  where 
The  life,  with  smarting  shoulders  and  stung  heart, 
Unknowing  that  the  hand  which  scourged  could  heal, 
Drave  forth,  blind,  cursing,  in  despair  to  die, 
Or  work  its  own  salvation  out  in  fear. 


C 

Old  World — old,  foolish,  wicked  World — farewell! 
Since  the  Time-angel  left  my  soul  with  thee, 
Thou  hast  been  a  hard  stepmother  unto  me. 
Now  I  at  last  rebel 

Against  thy  stony  eyes  and  cruel  hands. 
I  will  go  seek  in  far-off  lands 
Some  quiet  corner,  where  my  years  shall  be 
Still  as  the  shadow  of  a  brooding  bird 
That  stirs  but  with  her  heart-beats.    Far,  unheard 
May  wrangle  on  the  noisy  human  host, 
While  I  will  face  my  Life,  that  silent  ghost, 
And  force  it  speak  what  it  would  have  with  me. 

Not  of  the  fair  young  Earth, 
The  snow-crowned,  sunny-belted  globe; 
Not  of  its  skies,  nor  Twilight's  purple  robe, 
Nor  pearly  dawn;  not  of  the  flowers'  birth, 
And  Autumn's  forest-funerals;  not  of  storms, 
And  quiet  seas,  and  clouds'  incessant  forms; 
Not  of  the  sanctuary  of  the  night, 
With  its  solemnities,  nor  any  sight 
And  pleasant  sound  of  all  the  friendly  day: 
But  I  am  tired  of  what  we  call  our  lives; 
Tired  of  the  endless  humming  in  the  hives, — 


t 

Sick  of  the  bitter  honey  that  we  eat, 
And  sick  of  cursing  all  the  shallow  cheat. 

Let  me  arise,  and  away 
To  the  land  that  guards  the  dying  day, 
Whose  burning  tear,  the  evening-star, 
Drops  silently  to  the  wave  afar; 
The  land  where  summers  never  cease 
Their  sunny  psalm  of  light  and  peace. 
Whose  moonlight,  poured  for  years  untold, 
Has  drifted  down  in  dust  of  gold ; 
Whose  morning  splendors,  fallen  in  showers, 
Leave  ceaseless  sunrise  in  the  flowers. 

There  I  will  choose  some  eyrie  in  the  hills, 
Where  I  may  build,  like  a  lonely  bird, 
And  catch  the  whispered  music  heard 
Out  of  the  noise  of  human  ills. 


So,  I  am  here  at  last ; 

A  purer  world,  whose  feet  the  old,  salt  Past 
Washes  against,  and  leaves  it  fresh  and  free 
As  a  new  island  risen  from  the  sea. 


C  no  ] 

Three  dreamy  weeks  we  lay  on  Ocean's  breast, 
Rocked  asleep,  by  gentle  winds  caressed, 
Or  crooned  with  wild  wave-lullabies  to  rest. 
A  memory  of  foam  and  glassy  spray ; 
Wave  chasing  wave,  like  young  sea-beasts  at  play 
Stretches  of  misty  silver  'neath  the  moon, 
And  night-airs  murmuring  many  a  quiet  tune. 
Three  long,  delicious  weeks'  monotony 
Of  sky,  and  stars,  and  sea, 
Broken  midway  by  one  day's  tropic  scene 
Of  giant  plants,  tangles  of  luminous  green, 
With  fiery  flowers  and  purple  fruits  between. 


I  have  found  a  spot  for  my  hermitage, — 
No  dank  and  sunless  cave,  — 
I  come  not  for  a  dungeon,  nor  a  cage,  — 
Not  to  be  Nature's  slave, 
But,  as  a  weary  child, 
Unto  the  mother's  faithful  arms  I  flee, 
And  seek  the  sunniest  footstool  at  her  knee, 
Where  I  may  sit  beneath  caresses  mild, 
And  hear  the  sweet  old  songs  that  she  will  sing 
tome. 


C  in  H 

'T  is  a  grassy  mountain-nook, 
In  a  gorge,  whose  foaming  brook 
Tumbles  through  from  the  heights  above, 
Merrily  leaping  to  the  light 
From  the  pine-wood's  haunted  gloom, — 
As  a  romping  child, 
Affrighted,  from  a  sombre  room 
Leaps  to  the  sunshine,  laughing  with  delight : 
Be  this  my  home,  by  man's  tread  undefiled. 
Here  sounds  no  voice  but  of  the  mourning  dove, 
Nor  harsher  footsteps  on  the  sands  appear 
Than  the  sharp,  slender  hoof -marks  of  the  deer, 
Or  where  the  quail  has  left  a  zigzag  row 
Of  lightly  printed  stars  her  track  to  show. 

Above  me  frowns  a  front  of  rocky  wall, 
Deep  cloven  into  ruined  pillars  tall 
And  sculptures  strange  ;  bald  to  its  dizzy  edge, 
Save  where,  in  some  deep  crevice  of  a  ledge 
Buttressed  by  its  black  shadow  hung  below, 
A  solitary  pine  has  cleft  the  rock,  — 
Straight  as  an  arrow,  feathered  to  the  tip, 
As  if  a  shaft  from  the  moon-huntress'  bow 
Had  struck  and  grazed  the  cliff's  defiant  lip, 
And  stood,  still  stiffly  quivering  with  the  shock. 


C  112  3 

Beyond  the  gorge  a  slope  runs  half-way  up. 
With  hollow  curve  as  for  a  giant's  cup, 
Brimming  with  blue  pine-shadows  :  then  in  air 
The  gray  rock  rises  bare. 
Its  front  deep-fluted  by  the  sculptor-storms 
In  moulded  columns,  rounded  forms, 
As  if  great  organ-pipes  were  chiseled  there, 
Whose  anthems  are  the  torrent's  roar  below, 
And  chanting  winds  that  through  the  pine- tops  go. 
Here  bursts  of  requiem  music  sink  and  rise, 
When  the  full  moonlight,  slowly  streaming,  lies 
Like  panes  of  gold  on  some  cathedral  pave, 
While  floating  mists  their  silver  incense  wave, 
And  from  on  high,  through  fleecy  window-bars, 
Gaze  down  the  saintly  faces  of  the  stars. 

Against  the  huge  trunk  of  a  storm-snapped  tree, 
(Whose  hollow,  ready-hewn  by  long  decay, 
Above,  a  chimney,  lined  with  slate  and  clay, 
Below,  a  broad-arched  fireplace  makes  for  me,) 
I  've  built  of  saplings  and  long  limbs  a  hut. 
The  roof  with  lacing  boughs  is  tightly  shut, 
Thatched  with  thick-spreading  palms  of  pine, 
And  tangled  over  by  a  wandering  vine, 


C   "3   ] 

Uprooted  from  the  woods  close  by, 

Whose  clasping  tendrils  climb  and  twine, 

Waving  their  little  hands  on  high, 

As  if  they  loved  to  deck  this  nest  of  mine. 

Within,  by  smooth  white  stones  from  the  brook's 

beach 

My  rooms  are  separated,  each  from  each. 
On  yonder  island-rock  my  table 's  spread, 
Brook-ringed,  that  no  stray,  fasting  ant  may  come 
To  make  himself  with  my  wild  fare  at  home. 

Here  will  I  live,  and  here  my  life  shall  be 
Serene,  still,  rooted  steadfastly, 
Yet  pointing  skyward,  and  its  motions  keep 
A  rhythmic  balance,  as  that  cedar  tall, 
Whose  straight  shaft  rises  from  the  chasm  there, 
Through  the  blue,  hollow  air, 
And,  measuring  the  dizzy  deep, 
Leans  its  long  shadow  on  the  rock's  gray  wall. 


Through  the  sharp  gap  of  the  gorge  below, 
From  my  mountains'  feet  the  gaze  may  go 
Over  a  stretch  of  fields,  broad-sunned, 


[    114   ] 

Then  glance  beyond, 

Across  the  beautiful  bay, 

To  that  dim  ridge,  a  score  of  miles  away, 

Lifting  its  clear-cut  outline  high, 

Azure  with  distance  on  the  azure  sky, 

Whose  flocks  of  white  clouds  brooding  on  its  crests 

Have  winged  from  ocean  to  their  piny  nests. 

Beyond  the  bright  blue  water's  further  rim, 

Where  waves  seem  ripples  on  its  far-off  brim, 

The  rich  young  city  lies, 

Diminished  to  an  ant-hill's  size. 

I  trace  its  steep  streets,  ribbing  all  the  hill 

Like  narrow  bands  of  steel, 

Binding  the  city  on  the  shifting  sand  : 

Thick-pressed  between  them  stand 

Broad  piles  of  buildings,  pricked  through  here  and 

there 

By  a  sharp  steeple ;  and  above,  the  air 
Murky  with  smoke  and  dust,  that  seem  to  show 
The  bright  sky  saddened  by  the  sin  below. 


The  voice  of  my  wild  brook  is  marvelous ; 
Leaning  above  it  from  a  jutting  rock 


C   "5  3 

To  watch  the  image  of  my  face,  that  forms 

And  breaks,  and  forms  again  (as  the  image  of  God 

Is  broken  and  re-gathered  in  a  soul), 

I  listen  to  the  chords  that  sink  and  swell 

From  many  a  little  fall  and  babbling  run. 

That  hollow  gurgle  is  the  deepest  bass ; 

Over  the  pebbles  gush  contralto  tones, 

While  shriller  trebles  tinkle  merrily, 

Running,  like  some  enchanted-fingered  flute, 

Endless  chromatics. 

Now  it  is  the  hum 

And  roar  of  distant  streets ;  the  rush  of  winds 
Through  far-off  forests  :  now  the  noise  of  rain 
Drumming  the  roof ;  the  hiss  of  ocean-foam  : 
Now  the  swift  ripple  of  piano-keys 
In  mad  mazurkas,  danced  by  laughing  girls. 

So,  night  and  day,  the  hurrying  brook  goes  on  ; 
Sometimes  in  noisy  glee,  sometimes  far  down, 
Silent  along  the  bottom  of  the  gorge, 
Like  a  deep  passion  hidden  in  the  soul, 
That  chafes  in  secret  hunger  for  its  sea  : 
Yet  not  so  still  but  that  heaven  finds  its  course ; 


C   "6  3 

And  not  so  hid  but  that  the  yearning  night 
Broods  over  it,  and  feeds  it  with  her  stars. 


When  earth  has  Eden  spots  like  this  for  man, 
Why  will  he  drag  his  life  where  lashing  storms 
Whip  him  indoors,  the  petulant  weather's  slave  ? 
There  he  is  but  a  helpless,  naked  snail, 
Except  he  wear  his  house  close  at  his  back. 
Here  the  wide  air  builds  him  his  palace  walls,  — 
Some  little  corner  of  it  roofed,  for  sleep ; 
Or  he  can  lie  all  night,  bare  to  the  sky, 
And  feel  updrawn  against  the  breast  of  heaven, 
Letting  his  thoughts  stretch  out  among  the  stars, 
As  the  antennae  of  an  insect  grope 
Blindly  for  food,  or  as  the  ivy's  shoots 
Clamber  from  cope  and  tower  to  find  the  light, 
And  drink  the  electric  pulses  of  the  sun. 

As  from  that  sun  we  draw  the  coarser  fire 
That  swells  the  veins,  and  builds  the  brain  and  bone, 
So  from  each  star  a  finer  influence  streams, 
Kindling  within  the  mortal  chrysalis 
The  first  faint  thrills  of  its  new  life  to  come. 


C   "7  I! 

Here  is  no  niggard  gap  of  sky  above, 
With  murk  and  mist  below,  but  all  sides  clear, — 
Not  an  inch  bated  from  the  full-swung  dome ; 
Each  constellation  to  the  horizon's  rim 
Keen-glittering,  as  if  one  only  need 
Walk  to  the  edge  there,  spread  his  wings,  and  float, 
The  dark  earth  spurned  behind,  into  the  blue. 


I  love  thee,  thou  brown,  homely,  dear  old  Earth  ! 
Those  fairer  planets  whither  fate  may  lead, 
Whatever  marvel  be  their  bulk  or  speed, 
Ringed  with  what  splendor,  belted  round  with  fire, 
In  glory  of  perpetual  moons  arrayed, 
Can  ne'er  give  back  the  glow  and  fresh  desire 
Of  youth  in  that  old  home  where  man  had  birth, 
Whose  paths  he  trod  through  wholesome  light  and 

shade. 

Out  of  their  silver  radiance  to  thy  dim 
And  clouded  orb  his  eye  will  turn, 
As  an  old  man  looks  back  to  where  he  played 
About  his  father's  hearth,  and  finds  for  him 
No  splendor  like  the  fires  which  there  did  burn. 


C  1*8  3  • 

See :  I  am  come  to  live  alone  with  thee. 
Thou  hast  had  many  a  one,  grown  old  and  worn, 
Come  to  thee  weary  and  forlorn, 
Bent  with  the  weight  of  human  vanity. 
But  I  come  with  my  life  almost  untried, 
In  thy  perpetual  presence  to  abide. 
Teach  me  thy  wisdom ;  let  me  learn  the  flowers, 
And  know  the  rocks  and  trees, 
And  touch  the  springs  of  all  thy  hidden  powers. 
Let  the  still  gloom  of  thy  rock-fastnesses 
Fall  deep  upon  my  spirit,  till  the  voice 
Of  brooks  become  familiar,  and  my  heart  rejoice 
With  joy  of  birds  and  winds ;  and  all  the  hours, 
Unmaddened  by  the  babble  of  vain  men, 
Bring  thy  most  inner  converse  to  my  ken. 
So  shall  it  be,  that,  when  I  stand 
On  that  next  planet's  ruddy-shimmering  strand, 
I  shall  not  seem  a  pert  and  forward  child 
Seeking  to  dabble  in  abstruser  lore 
With  alphabet  unlearned,  who  in  disgrace 
Keturns,  upon  his  primer  yet  to  pore  — 
But  those  examiners,  all  wise  and  mild, 
Shall  gently  lead  me  to  my  place, 


C   "9  ] 

As  one  that  faithfully  did  trace 

These  simpler  earthly  records  o'er  and  o'er. 


Beckoned  at  sunrise  by  the  surf's  white  hand, 
I  have  strayed  down  to  sit  upon  the  beach, 
And  hear  the  oratorio  of  the  Sea. 
On  this  steep,  crumbling  bank,  where  the  high  tides 
Have  crunched  the  earth  away,  a  crooked  oak  — 
A  hunch-backed  dwarf,  whose  limbs,  cramped  down 

by  gales, 

Have  twisted  stiffening  back  upon  themselves  — 
Spreads  me  a  little  arbor  from  the  sun. 

On  the  brown,  shining  beach,  all  ripple-carved, 
Gleams  now  and  then  a  pool ;  so  smooth  and  clear, 
That,  though  I  cannot  see  the  plover  there 
Pacing  its  farther  edge  (so  much  he  looks 
The  color  of  the  sand),  yet  I  can  trace 
His  image  hanging  in  the  glassy  brine  — 
Slim  legs  and  rapier-beak  —  like  silver-plate 
With  such  a  pictured  bird  clean-etched  upon  it. 

Beyond,  long  curves  of  little  shallow  waves 
Creep,  tremulous  with  ripples,  to  the  shore, 


[    120    ] 

Till  the  whole  bay  seems  slowly  sliding  in, 
With  edge  of  snow  that  melts  against  the  sand. 

Above  its  twinkling  blue,  where  ceaselessly 
The  white  curve  of  a  slender  arm  of  foam 
Is  reached  along  the  water,  and  withdrawn, 
A  flock  of  sea-birds  darken  into  specks ; 
Then  whiten,  as  they  wheel  with  sunlit  wings, 
Winking  and  wavering  against  the  sky. 

The  earth  for  form,  the  sea  for  coloring, 
And  overhead,  fair  daughters  of  the  two, 
The  clouds,  whose  curves  were  moulded  on  the  hills, 
Whose  tints  of  pearl  and  foam  the  ocean  gave. 

0  Sea,  thou  art  all-beautiful,  but  dumb  ! 
Thou  hast  no  utterance  articulate 
For  human  ears ;  only  a  restless  moan 
Of  barren  tides,  that  loathe  the  living  earth 
As  alien,  striving  towards  the  barren  moon. 
Thou  art  no  longer  infinite  to  man  : 
Has  he  not  touched  thy  boundary-shores,  and  now 
Laid  his  electric  fetters  round  thy  feet  ? 


C 

Thy  dumb  moan  saddens  me ;  let  me  go  back 
And  listen  to  the  silence  of  the  hills. 


At  last  I  live  alone : 
No  human  judgment-seats  are  here 
Thrust  in  between  man  and  his  Maker's  throne, 
With  praise  to  covet,  or  with  frown  to  fear  : 
No  small,  distorted  judgments  bless,  or  blame ; 
Only  to  Him  I  own 
The  inward  sense  of  worth,  or  flush  of  shame. 

God  made  the  man  alone ; 
And  all  that  first  grand  morning  walked  he  so. 
Then  was  he  strong  and  wise,  till  at  the  noon, 
When  tired  with  joyous  wonder  he  lay  prone 
For  rest  and  sleep,  God  let  him  know 
The  subtile  sweetness  that  is  bound  in  Two. 

Man  rises  best  alone : 
Upward  his  thoughts  stream,  like  the  leaping  flame, 
Whose  base  is  tempest-blown  ; 
Upward  and  skyward,  since  from  thence  they  came, 

And  thither  they  must  flow. 

* 


C  122  3 

But  when  in  twos  we  go, 

The  lightnings  of  the  brain  weave  to  and  fro. 

Level  across  the  abyss  that  parts  us  all ; 

If  upward,  only  slantwise,  as  we  scale 

Slowly  together  that  night-shrouded  wall 

Which  bounds  our  reason,  lest  our  reason  fail. 

If  linked  in  threes,  and  fives, 

However  heavenward  the  spirit  strives, 

The  lowest  stature  draws  the  highest  down,  — 

The  king  must  keep  the  level  of  the  clown. 

The  grosser  matter  has  the  greater  power 

In  all  attraction  ;  every  hour 

We  slide  and  slip  to  lower  scales, 

Till  weary  aspiration  fails, 

And  that  keen  fire  which  might  have  pierced  the 

skies 
Is  quenched  and  killed  in  one  another's  eyes. 


A  child  had  blown  a  bubble  fair 
That  floated  in  the  sunny  air  : 
A  hundred  rainbows  danced  and  swung 
Upon  its  surface,  as  it  hung 
In  films  of  changing  color  rolled, 


Crimson,  and  amethyst,  and  gold, 
With  faintest  streaks  of  azure  sheen, 
And  curdling  rivulets  of  green. 
"  If  so  the  surface  shines,"  cried  he, 
"  What  marvel  must  the  centre  be  !  " 
He  caught  it  —  on  his  empty  hands 
A  drop  of  turbid  water  stands  ! 

With  men,  to  help  the  moments  fly, 
I  tossed  the  ball  of  talk  on  high, 
With  glancing  jest,  and  random  stings, 
Grazing  the  crests  of  thoughts  and  things, 
In  many  a  shifting  ray  of  speech 
That  shot  swift  sparkles,  each  to  each. 
I  thought,  "  Ah,  could  we  pierce  below 
To  inner  soul,  what  depths  would  show  !  " 
In  friendships  many,  loves  a  few, 
I  pierced  the  inner  depths,  and  knew 
'T  was  but  the  shell  that  splendor  caught : 
Within,  one  sour  and  selfish  thought. 

I  found  a  grotto,  hidden  in  the  gorge, 
Paved  by  the  brook  in  rare  mosaic  work 
Of  sand,  and  lucent  depths,  and  shadow-streaks 


C  124  ] 

Veining  the  amber  of  the  sun-dyed  wave. 
Between  two  mossy  masses  of  gray  rock 
Lay  a  clear  basin,  which,  with  sun  and  shade 
Bewitched,  a  great  transparent  opal  made, 
Over  whose  broken  rims  the  water  ran. 
Above  each  rocky  side  leaned  waving  trees 
Whose  lace  of  branches  wove  a  restless  roof, 
Trailed  over  by  green  vines  that  sifted  down 
A  dust  of  sunshine  through  the  chilly  shade. 

Leaning  against  a  trunk  of  oak,  rock-wedged, 
Whose  writhen  roots  were  clenched  upon  the  stones, 
I  was  a  Greek,  and  caught  the  sudden  flash 
Of  a  scared  Dryad's  vanishing  robe,  and  heard 
The  laughter,  half -suppressed,  of  hiding  Fauns. 
Up  the  dark  stairway  of  the  tumbling  stream 
The  sun  shot  through,  and  struck  each  foamy  fall 
Into  a  silvery  veil  of  dazzling  fire. 
Along  its  shady  course,  the  tossing  drops 
By  some  swift  sunbeam  ever  caught,  were  lit 
To  sparkling  stars,  that  fell,  and  flashed,  and  fell, 
Incessantly  rekindled.     Bubble-troops 
Came  dancing  by,  to  break  just  at  my  feet; 
Lo  !  every  bubble  mirrored  the  whole  scene  — 


C 

The  streak  of  blue  between  the  roofing-boughs, 
And  on  it  my  own  face  in  miniature 
Quaintly  distorted,  as  if  some  small  elf 
Peered  up  at  me  beneath  his  glassy  dome. 


If  men  but  knew  the  mazes  of  the  brain 
And  all  its  crowded  pictures,  they  would  need 
No  Louvre  or  Vatican  :  behind  our  brows 
Intricate  galleries  are  built,  whose  walls 
Are  rich  with  all  the  splendors  of  a  life. 
Each  crimson  leaf  of  every  autumn  walk, 
Dewdrops  of  childhood's  mornings,  every  scene 
From  any  window  where  we  've  chanced  to  stand, 
Forgotten  sunsets,  summer  afternoons, 
Hang  fresh  in  those  immortal  galleries. 
Few  ever  can  unlock  them,  till  great  Death 
Unrolls  our  lifelong  memory  as  a  scroll. 
One  key  is  solitude,  and  silence  one, 
And  one  a  quiet  mind,  content  to  rest 
In  God's  sufficiency,  and  take  His  world, 
Not  dabbling  all  the  Master's  work  to  death 
With  our  small  interference.    God  is  God. 


[    126    ^ 

Yet  we  must  give  the  children  leave  to  use 
Our  garden-tools,  though  they  spoil  tool  and  plant 
In  learning.    So  the  Master  may  not  scorn 
Our  awkwardness,  as  with  these  bungling  hands 
We  try  to  uproot  the  ill.  and  plant  with  good 
Life's  barren  soil :  the  child  is  learning  use. 
Perhaps  the  angels  even  are  forbid 
To  laugh  at  us,  or  may  not  care  to  laugh, 
With  kind  eyes  pitying  our  little  hurts. 

'T  is  ludicrous  that  man  should  think  he  roams 
Freely  at  will  a  world  planned  for  his  use. 
Lo,  what  a  mite  he  is  !     Snatched  hither  and  yon, 
Tossed  round  the  sun,  and  in  its  orbit  flashed 
Round  other  centres,  orbits  without  end ; 
His  bit  of  brain  too  small  to  even  feel 
The  spinning  of  the  little  hailstone,  Earth. 
So  his  creeds  glibly  prate  of  choice  and  will, 
When  his  whole  fate  is  an  invisible  speck 
Whirled  through  the  orbits  of  Eternity. 


We  think  that  we  believe 


That  human  souls  shall  live,  and  live, 


I  127  ] 

When  trees  have  rotted  into  mould. 

And  all  the  rocks  which  these  long  hills  enfold 

Have  crumbled,  and  beneath  new  oceans  lie. 

But  why  —  ah,  why  — 

If  puny  man  is  not  indeed  to  die, 

Watch  I  with  such  disdain 

That  human  speck  creeping  along  the  plain, 

And  turn  with  such  a  careless  scorn  of  men 

i          . , 

Back  to  the  mountain's  brow  again, 

And  feel  more  pleased  that  some  small,  fluttering 

thing 

Trusts  me  and  hovers  near  on  fearless  wing, 
Than  if  the  proudest  man  in  all  the  land 
Had  offered  me  in  friendliness  his  hand  ? 


However  small  the  present  creature  man, — 
Ridiculous  imitation  of  the  gods, 
Weak  plagiarism  on  some  completer  world, — 
Yet  we  can  boast  of  that  strong  race  to  be. 
The  savage  broke  the  attraction  which  binds  fast 
The  fibres  of  the  oak,  and  we  to-day 
By  cunning  chemistry  can  force  apart 
The  elements  of  the  air.     That  coming  race 


I   128  ] 

Shall  loose  the  bands  by  which  the  earth  attracts ; 
A  drop  of  occult  tincture,  a  spring  touched 
Shall  outwit  gravitation ;  men  shall  float, 
Or  lift  the  hills  and  set  them  where  they  will. 
The  savage  crossed  the  lake,  and  we  the  sea. 
That  coming  race  shall  have  no  bounds  or  bars, 
But,  like  the  fledgeling  eaglet,  leave  the  nest, — 
Our  earthly  eyrie  up  among  the  stars,  — 
And  freely  soar,  to  tread  the  desolate  moon, 
Or  mingle  with  the  neighbor  folk  of  Mars. 
Yea,  if  the  savage  learned  by  sign  and  sound 
To  bridge  the  chasm  to  his  fellow's  brain, 
Till  now  we  flash  our  whispers  round  the  globe, 
That  race  shall  signal  over  the  abyss 
To  those  bright  souls  who  throng  the  outer  courts 
Of  life,  impatient  who  shall  greet  men  first 
And  solve  the  riddles  that  we  die  to  know. 


'T  is  night:  I  sit  alone  among  the  hills. 
There  is  no  sound,  except  the  sleepless  brook, 
Whose  voice  comes  faintly  from  the  depths  below 
Through  the  thick  darkness,  or  the  sombre  pines 
That  slumber,  murmuring  sometimes  in  their  dreams. 


C 

Hark  !  on  a  fitful  gust  there  came  the  sound 

Of  the  tide  rising  yonder  on  the  bay. 

It  dies  again  :  't  was  like  the  rustling  noise 

Of  a  great  army  mustering  secretly. 

There  rose  an  owl's  cry,  from  the  woods  below, 

Like  a  lost  spirit's.  — Now  all 's  still  again. — 

'T  is  almost  fearful  to  sit  here  alone 

And  feel  the  deathly  silence  and  the  dark. 

I  will  arise  and  shout,  and  hear  at  least 

My  own  voice  answer.  —  Not  an  echo  even  ! 

I  wish  I  had  not  uttered  that  wild  cry ; 

It  broke  with  such  a  shock  upon  the  air, 

Whose  leaden  silence  closed  up  after  it, 

And  seemed  to  clap  together  at  my  ears. 

The  black  depths  of  these  muffled  woods  are  thronged 

With  shapes  that  wait  some  signal  to  swoop  out, 

And  swirl  around  and  madden  me  with  fear. 

I  will  go  climb  that  bare  and  rocky  height 

Into  the  clearer  air. 

So,  here  I  breathe ; 
That  silent  darkness  smothered  me. 

Away 
Across  the  bay,  the  city  with  its  lights 


[   130  ]] 

Twinkling  against  the  horizon's  dusky  line, 
Looks  a  sea-dragon,  crawled  up  on  the  shore, 
With  rings  of  fire  across  his  rounded  back, 
And  luminous  claws  spread  out  among  the  hills. 
Above,  the  glittering  heavens. — Magnificent ! 
Oh,  if  a  man  could  be  but  as  a  star, 
Having  his  place  appointed,  here  to  rise, 
And  there  to  set,  unchanged  by  earthly  change, 
Content  if  it  can  guide  some  wandering  bark, 
Or  be  a  beacon  to  some  homesick  soul ! 

Those  city-lights  again  :  they  draw  my  gaze 
As  if  some  secret  human  sympathy 
Still  held  my  heart  down  from  the  lonely  heaven. 
A  new-born  constellation,  settling  there 
Below  the  Sickle's  ruby-hilted  curve, 

They  gleam Not  so  !     No  constellation  they ; 

I  mock  the  sad,  strong  stars  that  never  fail 

In  their  eternal  patience  ;  from  below 

Comes  that  pale  glare,  like  the  faint,  sulphurous  flame 

Which  plays  above  the  ashes  of  a  fire : 

So  trembles  the  dull  flicker  of  those  lamps 

Over  the  burnt-out  energies  of  man. 


C 


II 


A  month  since  I  last  laid  my  pencil  down,  — 
An  April,  fairer  than  the  Atlantic  June, 
Whose  calendar  of  perfect  days  was  kept 
By  daily  blossoming  of  some  new  flower. 
The  fields,  whose  carpets  now  were  silken  white, 
Next  week  were  orange-velvet,  next,  sea-blue. 
It  was  as  if  some  central  fire  of  bloom, 
From  which  in  other  climes  a  random  root 
Is  now  and  then  shot  up,  here  had  burst  forth 
And  overflowed  the  fields,  and  set  the  land 
Aflame  with  flowers.     I  watched  them  day  by  day, 
How  at  the  dawn  they  wake,  and  open  wide 
Their  little  petal-windows,  how  they  turn 
Their  slender  necks  to  follow  round  the  sun, 
And  how  the  passion  they  express  all  day 
In  burning  color,  steals  forth  with  the  dew 
All  night  in  odor. 

I  have  wandered  much 
These  weeks,  but  everywhere  a  restless  mind 
Has  dogged  me  like  the  shadow  at  my  heels. 


[  132 : 

Sometimes  I  watched  the  morning  mist  arise, 

Like  an  imprisoned  Genie  from  the  stream, 

And  wished  that  death  would  come  on  me  like  dawn, 

Drawing  the  spirit,  that  white,  vaporous  mist, 

Up  from  this  noisy,  fretted  stream  of  life, 

To  fall  where  God  will,  in  his  bounteous  showers. 

Sometimes  I  walked  at  sunset  on  the  edge 

Of  the  steep  gorge,  and  saw  my  shadow  pace 

Along  a  shadow-wall  across  the  abyss, 

And  felt  that  we,  with  all  our  phantom  deeds, 

Are  but  far-slanted  shadows  of  some  life 

That  walks  between  our  planet  and  its  God. 

All  the  long  nights  —  those  memory-haunted  nights, 

When  sleepless  conscience  would  not  let  me  sleep, 

But  stung,  and  stung,  and  pointed  to  the  world 

Which  like  a  coward  I  had  left  behind, 

I  watched  the  heavens,  where  week  by  week  the  moon 

Slow  swelled  its  silver  bud,  blossomed  full  gold, 

And  slowly  faded. 


Laid  the  pencil  down  — 

Why  not  ?     Are  there  not  books  enough  ?     Is  man 
A  sick  child  that  must  be  amused  by  songs, 
Or  be  made  sicker  with  their  foolish  noise  ? 


[   133 

Then  illness  came  :  I  should  have  argued,  once, 
That  the  ill  body  gave  me  those  ill  thoughts ; 
But  I  have  learned  that  spirit,  though  it  be 
Subtile,  and  hard  to  trace,  is  mightier 
Than  matter,  and  I  know  the  poisoned  mind 
Poisoned  its  shell.     Three  days  of  fever-fire 
Burned  out  my  strength,  leaving  me  scarcely  power 
To  reach  the  brook's  side  and  my  scanty  food. 
What  would  I  not  have  given  to  hear  the  voice 
Of  some  one  who  would  raise  my  throbbing  head 
And  shade  the  fevering  sun,  and  cool  my  hand 
In  her  moist  palms  !     But  I  lay  there,  alone. 
Blessed  be  sickness,  which  cuts  down  our  pride 
And  bares  our  helplessness.  I  have  had  new  thoughts. 
I  think  the  fever  burned  away  some  lies 
Which  clogged  the  truthful  currents  of  the  brain. 
Am  I  quite  happy  here  ?     Have  I  the  right, 
As  wholly  independent,  to  scorn  men  ? 
What  do  I  owe  them  —  self  ?     Should  I  be  I, 
Born  in  these  hills  ?     A  savage  rather !     Food, 
The  sailor-bread  ?     Yes,  that  took  mill  and  men  : 
Yet  flesh  and  fowl  are  free ;  but  powder  and  gun  — 
What  human  lives  went  to  the  making  of  them  ? 
I  am  dependent  as  the  villager 


C 

Who  lives  by  the  white  wagon's  daily  round. 
Yea,  better  feed  upon  the  ox,  to  which 
The  knife  is  mercy  after  slavery, 
Than  kill  the  innocent  birds,  and  trustful  deer 
Whose  big  blue  eyes  have  almost  human  pain  ; 
That 's  murder ! 

I  scorned  books :  to  those  same  books 
I  owe  the  power  to  scorn  them. 

I  despised 

Men  :  from  themselves  I  drew  the  pure  ideal 
By  which  to  measure  them. 

At  woman's  love 

I  laughed :  but  to  that  love  I  owe 
The  hunger  for  a  more  abiding  love. 
Their  nestlings  in  our  hearts  leave  vacant  there 
These  hollow  places,  like  a  lark's  round  nest 
Left  empty  in  the  grass,  and  filled  with  flowers. 

What  do  I  here  alone  ?     'T  was  not  so  strange, 
Weary  of  discords,  that  I  chose  to  hear 
The  one,  clear,  perfect  note  of  solitude ; 
But  now  it  plagues  the  ear,  that  one  shrill  note  : 
Give  me  the  chords  back,  even  though  some  ring  false. 


c:  *35  3 

Unmarried  to  the  steel,  the  flint  is  cold : 
Strike  one  to  the  other,  and  they  wake  in  fire. 

A  solitary  fagot  will  not  burn  : 
Bring  two,  and  cheerily  the  flame  ascends. 
Alone,  man  is  a  lifeless  stone ;  or  lies 
A  charring  ember,  smouldering  into  ash. 


If  the  man  riding  yonder  looks  a  speck, 
The  town  an  ant-hill,  that  is  but  the  trick 
Of  our  perspective :  wisdom  merely  means 
Correction  of  the  angles  at  the  eye. 
I  hold  my  hand  up,  so,  before  my  face,  — 
It  blots  ten  miles  of  country,  and  a  town. 
This  little  lying  lens,  that  twists  the  rays, 
So  cheats  the  brain  that  My  house,  My  affairs, 
My  hunger,  or  My  happiness,  My  ache, 
And  My  religion,  fill  immensity  ! 
Yours  merely  dot  the  landscape  casually. 
'T  is  well  God  does  not  measure  a  man's  worth 
By  the  image  on  his  neighbor's  retina. 


I   136  1 

I  am  alone  :  the  birds  care  not  for  me, 
Except  to  sing  a  little  farther  off, 
With  looks  that  say,  "  What  does  this  fellow 

here?" 

The  loud  brook  babbles  only  for  the  flowers : 
The  mountain  and  the  forest  take  me  not 
Into  their  meditations ;  I  disturb 
Their  silence,  as  a  child  that  drags  his  toy 
Across  a  chapel's  porch.    The  viewless  ones 
Who  flattered  me  to  claim  their  company 
By  gleams  of  thought  fchey  tossed  to  me  for  alms, 
About  their  grander  matters  turn,  nor  deign 
To  notice  me,  unless  it  were  to  say  — 
As  we  put  off  a  troublesome  child  —  "  There,  go  ! 
Men  are  your  fellows,  go  and  mate  with  them !  " 


If  I  could  find  one  soul  that  would  not  lie, 
I  would  go  back,  and  we  would  arm  our  hands, 
And  strike  at  every  ugly  weed  that  stands 

In  God's  wide  garden  of  the  world,  and  try, 
Obedient  to  the  Gardener's  commands, 

To  set  some  smallest  flowers  before  we  die. 


C 

One  such  I  had  found,  — 
But  she  was  bound, 
Fettered  and  led,  bid  for  and  sold, 
Chained  to  a  stone  by  a  ring  of  gold. 

In  a  stony  sense  the  stone  loved  her,  too  : 
Between  our  places  the  river  was  broad, 
Should  she  tread  on  a  broken  heart  to  go  through  — 
Could  she  put  a  man's  life  in  mid-stream  to  be  trod, 
To  come  over  dry-shod  ? 


Shame  !  that  a  man  with  hand  and  brain 
Should,  like  a  love-lorn  girl,  complain, 
Rhyming  his  dainty  woes  anew, 
When  there  is  honest  work  to  do  ! 

What  work,  what  work  ?     Is  God  not  wise 
To  rule  the  world  He  could  devise  ? 
Yet  see  thou,  though  the  realm  be  His, 
He  governs  it  by  deputies. 
Enough  to  know  of  Chance  and  Luck, 
The  stroke  we  choose  to  strike  is  struck ; 
The  deed  we  slight  will  slighted  be, 


I  138  ] 

In  spite  of  all  Necessity. 
The  Parcse's  web  of  good  and  ill 
They  weave  with  human  shuttle  still, 
And  fate  is  fate  through  man's  free  will. 


With  sullen  thoughts  that  smoulder  hour  by  hour, 
In  vague  expectancy  of  help  or  hope 
Which  still  eludes  my  brain,  waiting  I  sit 
Like  a  blind  beggar  at  a  palace-gate, 
Who  hears  the  rustling  past  of  silks,  and  airs 
Of  costly  odor  mock  him  blowing  by, 
And  feels  within  a  dull  and  aching  wish 
That  the  proud  wall  would  let  some  coping  down 
To  crush  him  dead,  and  let  him  have  his  rest. 

No  help  from  men  :  they  could  not,  if  they  would. 
And  God  ?     He  lets  His  world  be  wrung  with  pain. 
No  help  at  all  then  ?     Let  life  be  in  vain : 
To  get  no  help  is  surely  greatest  gain ; 
To  taunt  the  hunger  down  is  sweetest  food. 


C 

0  mocker,  Memory !    From  what  floating  cloud, 
Or  from  what  witchery  of  the  haunted  wood, 
Or  faintest  perfumes,  softly  drifting  through 
The  lupines'  lattice-bars  of  white  and  blue, 
Steals  back  upon  my  soul  this  weaker  mood  ? 
My  heart  is  dreaming ;  —  in  a  shadowy  room 
I  breathe  the  vague  scent  of  a  jasmin-bloom 
That  floats  on  waves  of  music,  softer  played, 
Till  song  and  odor  all  the  brain  pervade ; 
Swiftly  across  my  cheek  there  sweeps  the  thrill 
Of  burning  lips,  —  then  all  is  hushed  and  still ; 
And  round  the  vision  in  unearthly  awe 
Deeps  of  enchanted  starlight  seem  to  draw, 
In  which  my  soul  sinks,  falling  noiselessly  — 
As  from  a  lone  ship,  far-off,  in  the  night, 
Out  of  a  child's  hand  slips  a  pebble  white, 
Glimmering  and  fading  down  the  awful  sea. 


That  night,  which  pushed  me  out  of  Paradise, 
When  the  last  guest  had  taken  his  mask  of  smiles 
And  gone,  she  wheeled  a  sofa  from  the  light 
Where  I  sat  touching  the  piano-keys, 
And  begged  me  play  her  weariness  away. 


[   140  3 

I  played  all  sweet  and  solemn  airs  I  knew. 
And  when,  with  music  mesmerized,  she  slept, 
I  made  the  deep  chords  tell  her  dreams  my  love. 
Once,  when  they  grew  too  passionate,  I  saw 
The  faint  blush  ripen  in  their  glow,  and  chide, 
Even  in  dreams,  the  rash,  tumultuous  thought. 
Then  when  I  made  them  say,  "Sleep  on,  dream  on, 
For  now  we  are  together ;  when  thou  wak'st 
Forevermore  we  are  alone  —  alone," 
She  sighed  in  sleep,  and  waked  not :  then  I  rose, 
And  softly  stooped  my  head,  and,  half  in  awe, 
Half  passion-rapt,  I  kissed  her  lips  farewell. 

Only  the  meek-mouthed  blossoms  kiss  I  now, 

Or  the  cold  cheek  that  sometimes  comes  at  night 
In  haunted  dreams,  and  brushes  past  my  own. 

Ah,  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  me,  sweet  song  — 
Why  hauntest  thou  and  vexest  so  my  dreams  ? 

Have  I  not  turned  away  from  thee  so  long  — 
So  long,  and  yet  the  starry  midnight  seems 

Astir  with  tremulous  music,  as  of  old, — - 

Forbidden  memories  opening,  fold  on  fold  ? 

0  ghost  of  Love,  why,  with  thy  rose-leaf  lips, 
Dost  thou  still  mock  my  sleep  with  kisses  warm, 


C 

Torturing  my  dreams  with  touching  finger  tips. 
That  madden  me  to  clasp  thy  phantom  form  ? 
Have  I  not  earned,  by  all  these  tears,  at  last, 
The  right  to  rest  untroubled  by  that  Past  ? 


Unto  thy  patient  heart,  my  mother  Earth, 
I  come,  a  weary  child. 

I  have  no  claim,  save  that  thou  gav'st  me  birth, 
And  hast  sustained  me  with  thy  nurture  mild. 
I  have  stood  up  alone  these  many  years ; 
Now  let  me  come  and  lie  upon  my  face, 
And  spread  my  hands  among  the  dewy  grass, 
Till  the  slow  wind's  mesmeric  touches  pass 
Above  my  brain,  and  all  its  throbbing  chase ; 
Into  thy  bosom  take  these  bitter  tears, 
And  let  them  seem  unto  the  innocent  flowers 
Only  as  dew,  or  heaven's  gentle  showers ; 
Till,  quieted  and  hushed  against  thy  breast, 
I  can  forget  to  weep, 
And  sink  at  last  to  sleep,  — 
Long  sleep  and  rest. 


C  142  ] 

Her  face ! 

It  must  have  been  her  face, — 
No  other  one  was  ever  half  so  fair, — 
No  other  head  e'er  bent  with  such  meek  grace 
Beneath  that  weight  of  beautiful  blonde  hair. 
In  a  carriage  on  the  street  of  the  town, 
Where  I  had  strayed  in  walking  from  the  bay, 
Just  as  the  sun  was  going  down, 
Shielding  her  sight  from  his  latest  ray, 
She  sat,  and  scanned  with  eager  eye 
The  faces  of  the  passers-by. 
Whom  was  she  looking  for  ?    Not  me  — 
Yet  what  wild  purpose  can  it  be 
That  tempted  her  to  this  wild  land  ? 
—  I  marked  that  on  her  lifted  hand 
The  diamonds  no  longer  shine 
Of  the  ring  that  meant,  not  mine  —  not  mine  ! 

Ah  fool  —  fool  —  fool !  crawl  back  to  thy  den, 
Like  a  wounded  beast  as  thou  art,  again ; 
Whosever  she  be,  not  thine  —  not  thine  ! 


I  sat  last  night  on  yonder  ridge  of  rocks 
To  see  the  sun  set  over  Tamalpais, 


C 

Whose  tented  peak,  suffused  with  rosy  mist, 
Blended  the  colors  of  the  sea  and  sky 
And  made  the  mountain  one  great  amethyst 
Hanging  against  the  sunset. 

In  the  west 

There  lay  two  clouds  which  parted  company, 
Floating  like  two  soft-breasted  swans,  and  sailed 
Farther  and  farther  separate,  till  one  stayed 
To  make  a  mantle  for  the  evening-star ; 
The  other  wept  itself  away  in  rain. 
A  fancy  seized  me ;  —  if ,  in  other  worlds, 
That  Spirit  from  afar  should  call  to  me, 
Across  some  starry  chasm  impassable, 
Weeping,  "  Oh,  hadst  thou  only  come  to  me !  — 
I  loved  you  so  !  —  I  prayed  each  night  that  God 
Would  send  you  to  me  !    Now,  alas !  too  late, 
Too  late  —  farewell !  "  and  still  again,  "  farewell ! 
Like  the  pulsation  of  a  silenced  bell 
Whose  sobs  beat  on  within  the  brain. 

I  rose, 

And  smote  my  staff  strongly  against  the  ground, 
And  set  my  face  homeward,  and  set  my  heart 


144 

Firm  in  a  passionate  purpose :  there,  in  haste, 
With  that  one  echo  goading  me  to  speed, 
"  If  it  should  be  too  late  —  if  it  should  be 
Too  late  —  too  late  !  "  I  took  a  pen  and  wrote : 

"  Dear  Soul,  if  I  am  mad  to  speak  to  thee, 
And  this  faint  glimmer  which  I  call  a  hope 
Be  but  the  corpse-light  on  the  grave  of  hope  — 
If  thou,  0  darling  Star,  art  in  the  West 
To  be  my  Evening-star,  and  watch  my  day 
Fade  slowly  into  desolate  twilight,  burn 
This  folly  in  the  flames ;  and  scattered  with 
Its  ashes,  let  my  madness  be  forgot. 
But  if  not  so,  oh  be  my  Morning-star, 
And  crown  my  East  with  splendor :  come  to  me ! 


A  stern,  wild,  broken  place  for  a  man  to  walk 
And  muse  on  broken  fortunes ;  a  rare  place, — 
There  in  the  Autumn  weather,  cool  and  still, 
With  the  warm  sunshine  clinging  round  the  rocks 
Softly,  in  pity,  like  a  woman's  love, — 
To  wait  for  some  one  who  can  never  come  — 
As  a  man  there  was  waiting.    Overhead 


[   145  D 

A  happy  bird  sang  quietly  to  himself, 
Unconscious  of  such  sombre  thoughts  below. 
To  which  the  song  was  background :  — 

"  Yet  how  men 

Sometimes  will  struggle,  writhe,  and  scream  at  death  ! 
It  were  so  easy  now,  in  the  mild  air, 
To  close  the  senses,  slowly  sleep,  and  die ; 
To  cease  to  be  the  shaped  and  definite  cloud, 
And  melt  away  into  the  fathomless  blue ;  — 
Only  to  touch  this  crimson  thread  of  life, 
Whose  steady  ripple  pulses  in  my  wrist, 
And  watch  the  little  current  soak  the  grass, 
Till  the  haze  came,  then  darkness,  and  then  rest. 
Would  God  be  angry  if  I  stopped  one  life 
Among  His  myriads  —  such  a  worthless  one  ? 
If  I  should  pray,  I  wonder  would  He  send 
An  angel  down  out  of  that  great,  white  cloud, 
(He  surely  could  spare  one  from  praising  Him,) 
To  tell  if  there  is  any  better  way 
Than  —  Look  !    Why,  that  is  grand,  now !    (Am  I 

mad? 

I  did  not  think  I  should  go  mad !)   That 's  grand  — 
One  of  the  blessed  spirits  come  like  this 


n 

To  meet  a  poor,  lean  man  among  the  rocks, 
And  answer  questions  for  him  ?  " 

There  she  stood, 

With  blonde  hair  blowing  back,  as  if  the  breeze 
Blew  a  light  out  of  it,  that  ever  played 
And  hovered  at  her  shoulders.    Such  blue  eyes 
Mirrored  the  dreamy  mountain  distances,  — 
(Yet,  are  the  angels'  faces  thin  and  wan 
Like  that ;  and  do  they  have  such  mouths,  so  drawn, 
As  if  a  sad  song,  some  sad  time,  had  died 
Upon  the  lips,  and  left  its  echo  there  ?) 

And  the  man  rose,  and  stood  with  folded  hands 
And  head  bent,  and  his  downcast  looks  in  awe 
Touching  her  garment's  hem,  that,  when  she  spoke, 
Trembled  a  little  where  it  met  her  feet. 

"  I  am  come,  because  you  called  to  me  to  come. 
What  were  all  other  voices  when  I  heard 
The  voice  of  my  own  soul's  soul  call  to  me  •? 
You  knew  I  loved  you  —  oh,  you  must  have  known  ! 
Was  it  a  noble  thing  to  do,  you  think, 
To  leave  a  lonely  girl  to  die  down  there 


n  147 1 

In  the  great  empty  world,  and  come  up  here 

To  make  a  martyr's  pillar  of  your  pride  ? 

There  has  been  nobler  work  done,  there  in  the  world, 

Than  you  have  done  this  year ! " 

Then  cried  the  man  : 

"  0  voice  that  I  have  prayed  for  —  0  sad  voice, 
And  woeful  eyes,  spare  me  if  I  have  sinned ! 
There  was  a  little  ring  you  used  to  wear  "  — 

"  0  strange,  wild  Fates,  that  balance  bliss  and  woe 
On  such  poor  straws  !    It  was  a  brother's  gift." 

"  You  never  told  me  "  — 

"  Did  you  ever  ask  ?  " 
"  You,  too,  were  surely  prouder  then  than  now  !  " 

"  Dear,  I  am  sadder  now :  the  head  must  bend 
A  little,  when  one 's  weeping." 

Then  the  man,  — 
While  half  his  mind,  bewildered,  at  a  flash 


Took  in  the  wide,  lone  place,  the  singing  bird, 
The  sunshine  streaming  past  them  like  a  wind, 
And  the  broad  tree  that  moved  as  though  it  breathed : 
"  Oh,  if  't  is  possible  that  in  the  world 
There  lies  some  low,  mean  work  for  me  to  do, 
Let  me  go  there  alone :  I  am  ashamed 
To  wear  life's  crown  when  I  flung  down  its  sword. 
Crammed  full  of  pride,  and  lust,  and  littleness, 
0  God,  I  am  not  worthy  of  thy  gifts ! 
Let  me  find  penance,  till,  years  hence,  perchance, 
Made  pure  by  toil,  and  scourged  with  pain  and 
prayer  "  — 

Then  a  voice  answered  through  His  creature's 

lips,— 

"  God  asks  no  penance  but  a  better  life. 
He  purifies  by  pain  —  He  only ;  't  is 
A  remedy  too  dangerous  for  our 
Blind  pharmacy.   Lo !  we  have  tried  that  way, 
And  borne  what  fruit,  or  blossoms  even,  save  one 
Poor  passion-flower !    Come,  take  thy  happiness ; 
In  happy  hearts  are  all  the  sunbeams  forged 
That  brighten  up  our  weatherbeaten  world. 


149 


Come  back  with  me  —  Come  !  for  I  love  you 
Come!" 


If  it  was  not  a  dream  :  perchance  it  was  — 
Often  it  seems  so,  and  I  wonder  when 
I  shall  awaken  on  the  mountain-side, 
With  a  little  bitter  taste  left  in  the  mouth 
Of  too  much  sleep,  or  too  much  happiness, 
And  sigh,  and  wish  that  I  might  dream  again. 


SUNDOWN 

A  SEA  of  splendor  in  the  West, 

Purple,  and  pearl,  and  gold, 
With  milk-white  ships  of  cloud,  whose  sails 

Slowly  the  winds  unfold. 

Brown  cirrus-bars,  like  ribbed  beach-sand, 

Cross  the  blue  upper  dome ; 
And  nearer  flecks  of  feathery  white 

Blow  over  them  like  foam. 

But  when  that  transient  glory  dies 

Into  the  twilight  gray, 
And  leaves  me  on  the  beach  alone 

Beside  the  glimmering  bay ; 

And  when  I  know  that,  late  or  soon, 

Love's  glory  finds  a  grave, 
And  hearts  that  danced  like  dancing  foam 

Break  like  the  breaking  wave ; 


C 

A  little  dreary,  homeless  thought 

Creeps  sadly  over  me, 
Like  the  shadow  of  a  lonely  cloud 

Moving  along  the  sea. 


THE  ARCH 

JUST  where  the  street  of  the  village  ends, 

Over  the  road  an  oak-tree  tall, 
Curving  in  more  than  a  crescent,  bends 

With  an  arch  like  the  gate  of  a  Moorish  wall. 

Over  across  the  river  there, 

Looking  under  the  arch,  one  sees 
The  sunshine  slant  through  the  distant  air, 

And  burn  on  the  cliff  and  the  tufted  trees. 

Each  day,  hurrying  through  the  town, 

I  stop  an  instant,  early  or  late, 
As  I  cross  the  street,  and  glancing  down 

I  catch  a  glimpse  through  the  Moorish  gate. 

Only  a  moment  there  I  stand, 

But  I  look  through  that  loop  in  the  dusty  air, 
Into  a  far-off  fairy  land, 

Where  all  seems  calm,  and  kind,  and  fair. 


C  W  3 

So  sometimes  at  the  end  of  a  thought, 

Where  with  a  vexing  doubt  we  've  striven, 

A  sudden,  sunny  glimpse  is  caught 

Of  an  open  arch,  and  a  peaceful  heaven. 


c:  154  3 


APRIL  IN  OAKLAND 

WAS  there  last  night  a  snowstorm  ? 

So  thick  the  orchards  stand, 
With  drift  on  drift  of  blossom-flakes 

Whitening  all  the  land. 

Or  have  the  waves  of  life  that  swelled 
The  green  buds,  day  by  day, 

Broken  at  once  in  clinging  foam 
And  scattered  odor-spray  ? 

The  winds  come  drowsy  with  the  breath 

Of  cherry  and  of  pear, 
Sighing  their  perfume-laden  wings 

No  more  of  sweet  can  bear. 

Over  the  garden-gateway 
That  parts  the  tufted  hedge, 

Rimming  the  idly  twinkling  bay 
Sleeps  the  blue  mountains'  edge, 


C   155  H 

Yon  fleece  of  clouds  in  heaven, 

So  delicate  and  fair, 
Seems  a  whole  league  of  orchard-bloom 

Sailing  along  the  air. 

Oh,  loveliness  of  nature  ! 

Oh,  sordid  minds  of  men  ! 
Without,  a  world  of  bloom  and  balm  — 

A  sour,  sad  soul  within. 

0  winds  that  sweep  the  orchard 

With  Orient  spices  sweet, 
Why  bring  ye  with  that  desolate  sound 

The  dead  leaves  to  my  feet  ? 

Ah,  sweeter  were  the  fragrance 

That  I  to-day  have  found, 
If  last  year's  crumbled  leaves  of  love 

Were  buried  under  ground ; 

And  fairer  were  the  shadowed  troops 

That  fleck  the  distant  hill, 
If  shades  of  clouds  that  will  not  pass 

Dimmed  not  my  memory  still. 


C  156  ] 

Better  than  all  the  beauty 

Which  cloud  or  blossom  shows 

Is  the  blue  sky  that  arches  all 
With  measureless  repose. 

And  better  than  the  bright  blue  sky, 

To  know  that  far  away 
Sweep  all  the  silent  host  of  stars 

Behind  the  veil  of  day. 

And  best  to  feel  that  there  and  here, 

About  us  and  above, 
Move  on  the  purposes  of  God 

In  justice  and  in  love. 


L  157 


STARLIGHT 

THEY  think  me  daft,  who  nightly  meet 
My  face  turned  starward,  while  my  feet 
Stumble  along  the  unseen  street ; 

But  should  man's  thoughts  have  only  room 
For  Earth,  his  cradle  and  his  tomb, 
Not  for  his  Temple's  grander  gloom  ? 

And  must  the  prisoner  all  his  days 
Learn  but  his  dungeon's  narrow  ways 
And  never  through  its  grating  gaze  ? 

Then  let  me  linger  in  your  sight, 

My  only  amaranths !  blossoming  bright 

As  over  Eden's  cloudless  night. 

The  same  vast  belt,  and  square,  and  crown, 
That  on  the  Deluge  glittered  down, 
And  lit  the  roofs  of  Bethlehem  town  ! 


[   158  3 

Ye  make  me  one  with  all  my  race, 
A  victor  over  time  and  space, 
Till  all  the  path  of  men  I  pace. 

Far-speeding  backward  in  my  brain 
We  build  the  Pyramids  again, 
And  Babel  rises  from  the  plain ; 

And  climbing  upward  on  your  beams 
I  peer  within  the  Patriarchs'  dreams, 
Till  the  deep  sky  with  angels  teems. 

My  Comforters  !  —  Yea,  why  not  mine  ? 
The  power  that  kindled  you  doth  shine, 
In  man,  a  mastery  divine ; 

That  Love  which  throbs  in  every  star, 
And  quickens  all  the  worlds  afar, 
Beats  warmer  where  his  children  are. 

The  shadow  of  the  wings  of  Death 
Broods  over  us ;  we  feel  his  breath : 
"  Resurgam  "  still  the  spirit  saith. 


[   159  3 

These  tired  feet,  this  weary  brain, 
Blotted  with  many  a  mortal  stain, 
May  crumble  earthward  —  not  in  vain. 

With  swifter  feet  that  shall  not  tire, 
Eyes  that  shall  fail  not  at  your  fire, 
Nearer  your  splendors  I  aspire. 


c;  16° 3 


A  DEAD  BIRD  IN  WINTER 

THE  cold,  hard  sky  and  hidden  sun, 
The  stiffened  trees  that  shiver  so, 

With  bare  twigs  naked  every  one 

To  these  harsh  winds  that  freeze  the  snow,- 

It  was  a  bitter  place  to  die, 

Poor  birdie !     Was  it  easier,  then, 

On  such  a  world  to  shut  thine  eye, 
And  sleep  away  from  life,  than  when 

The  apple-blossoms  tint  the  air, 
And,  twittering  in  the  sunny  trees, 

Thy  fellow-songsters  flit  and  pair, 

Breasting  the  warm,  caressing  breeze  ? 

Nay,  it  were  easiest,  I  feel, 

Though  't  were  a  brighter  Earth  to  lose, 
To  let  the  summer  shadows  steal 

About  thee,  bringing  their  repose ; 


C  l61  3 

When  the  noon  hush  was  on  the  air, 

And  on  the  flowers  the  warm  sun  shined, 

And  Earth  seemed  all  so  sweet  and  fair, 
That  He  who  made  it  must  be  kind. 

So  I,  too,  could  not  bear  to  go 

From  Life  in  this  unfriendly  clime, 

To  lie  beneath  the  crusted  snow, 

When  the  dead  grass  stands  stiff  with  rime ; 

But  under  those  blue  skies  of  home, 

Far  easier  were  it  to  lie  down 
Where  the  perpetual  violets  bloom 

And  the  rich  moss  grows  never  brown ; 

Where  linnets  never  cease  to  build 

Their  nests,  in  boughs  that  always  wave 

To  odorous  airs,  with  blessing  filled 
From  nestled  blossoms  round  my  grave. 


162 


SPRING  TWILIGHT 

SINGING  in  the  rain,  robin  ? 

Rippling  out  so  fast 
All  thy  flute-like  notes,  as  if 

This  singing  were  thy  last ! 

After  sundown,  too,  robin  ? 

Though  the  fields  are  dim, 
And  the  trees  grow  dark  and  still, 

Dripping  from  leaf  and  limb. 

'T  is  heart-broken  music  — 
That  sweet,  faltering  strain,  — 

Like  a  mingled  memory, 
Half  ecstasy,  half  pain. 

Surely  thus  to  sing,  robin, 
Thou  must  have  in  sight 

Beautiful  skies  behind  the  shower, 
And  dawn  beyond  the  night. 


C 

Would  thy  faith  were  mine,  robin  ! 

Then,  though  night  were  long, 
All  its  silent  hours  should  melt 

Their  sorrow  into  song. 


EVENING 

THE  Sun  is  gone :  those  glorious  chariot-wheels 
Have  sunk  their  broadening  spokes  of  flame,  and  left 
Thin  rosy  films  wimpled  across  the  West, 
Whose  last  faint  tints  melt  slowly  in  the  blue, 
As  the  last  trembling  cadence  of  a  song 
Fades  into  silence  sweeter  than  all  sound. 

Now  the  first  stars  begin  to  tremble  forth 
Like  the  first  instruments  of  an  orchestra 
Touched  softly,  one  by  one.  —  There  in  the  East 
Kindles  the  glory  of  moonrise :  how  its  waves 
Break  in  a  surf  of  silver  on  the  clouds  !  — 
White,  motionless  clouds,  like  soft  and  snowy  wings 
Which  the  great  Earth  spreads,  sailing  round  the 
Sun. 

0  silent  stars  !  that  over  ages  past 
Have  shone  serenely  as  ye  shine  to-night, 
Unseal,  unseal  the  secret  that  ye  keep  ! 
Is  it  not  time  to  tell  us  why  we  live  ? 


C 

Through  all  these  shadowy  corridors  of  years, 
(Like  some  gray  Priest,  who  through  the  Mysteries 
Led  the  blindfolded  Neophyte  in  fear,) 
Time  leads  us  blindly  onward,  till  in  wrath 
Tired  Life  would  seize  and  throttle  its  stern  guide, 
And  force  him  tell  us  whither  and  how  long. 
But  Time  gives  back  no  answer  —  only  points 
With  motionless  finger  to  eternity, 
Which  deepens  over  us,  as  that  deep  sky 
Darkens  above  me  :  only  its  vestibule 
Glimmers  with  scattered  stars;  and  down  the  West 
A  silent  meteor  slowly  slides  afar, 
As  though,  pacing  the  garden-walks  of  heaven, 
Some  musing  seraph  had  let  fall  a  flower. 


C  l66 


THE  ORGAN 

IT  is  no  harmony  of  human  making, 

Though  men  have  built  those  pipes  of  burnished 

gold; 
Their  music,  out  of  Nature's  heart  awaking, 

Forever  new,  forever  is  of  old. 

Man  makes  not  —  only  finds  —  all  earthly  beauty, 
Catching  a  thread  of  sunshine  here  and  there, 

Some  shining  pebble  in  the  path  of  duty, 
Some  echo  of  the  songs  that  flood  the  air. 

That  prelude  is  a  wind  among  the  willows, 
Eising  until  it  meets  the  torrent's  roar ; 

Now  a  wild  ocean,  beating  his  great  billows 
Among  the  hollow  caverns  of  the  shore. 

It  is  the  voice  of  some  vast  people,  pleading 

For  justice  from  an  ancient  shame  and  wrong,  — 

The  tramp  of  God's  avenging  armies,  treading 
With  shouted  thunders  of  triumphant  song. 


3 

0  soul,  that  sittest  chanting  dreary  dirges, 
Couldest  thou  but  rise  on  some  divine  desire, 

As  those  deep  chords  upon  their  swelling  surges 
Bear  up  the  wavering  voices  of  the  choir ! 

But  ever  lurking  in  the  heart,  there  lingers 
The  trouble  of  a  false  and  jarring  tone, 

As  some  great  Organ  which  unskillful  fingers 
Vex  into  discords  when  the  Master  's  gone. 


C   168 


EASTERN  WINTER 

COLD — cold — the  very  sun  looks  cold, 
With  those  thin  rays  of  chilly  gold 
Laid  on  that  gap  of  bluish  sky 
That  glazes  like  a  dying  eye. 

The  naked  trees  are  shivering, 
Each  cramped  and  bare  branch  quivering, 
Cutting  the  bleak  wind  into  blades, 
Whose  edge  to  brain  and  bone  invades. 

That  hard  ground  seems  to  ache,  all  day, 

Even  for  a  sheet  of  snow,  to  lay 

Upon  its  icy  feet  and  knees, 

Stretched  stiffly  there  to  freeze  and  freeze. 

And  yon  shrunk  mortal — what 's  within 
That  nipped  and  winter-shriveled  skin  ? 
The  pinched  face  drawn  in  peevish  lines, 
The  voice  that  through  his  blue  lips  whines, — 


C  169  3 

The  frost  has  got  within,  you  see,  — 
Left  but  a  selfish  me  and  me : 
The  heart  is  chilled,  its  nerves  are  numb, 
And  love  has  long  been  frozen  dumb. 

Ah,  give  me  back  the  clime  I  know, 
Where  all  the  year  geraniums  blow, 
And  hyacinth-buds  bloom  white  for  snow ; 

Where  hearts  beat  warm  with  life's  delight, 
Through  radiant  winter's  sunshine  bright, 
And  summer's  starry  deeps  of  night ; 

Where  man  may  let  earth's  beauty  thaw 
The  wintry  creed  which  Calvin  saw, 
That  God  is  only  Power  and  Law ; 

And  out  of  Nature's  Bible  prove, 

That  here  below  as  there  above 

Our  Maker — Father — God  —  is  Love. 


[   170 


SLEEPING 

HUSHED  within  her  quiet  bed 
She  is  lying  all  the  night, 
In  her  pallid  robes  of  white, 
Eyelids  on  the  pure  eyes  pressed, 
Soft  hands  folded  on  the  breast,  — 

And  you  thought  I  meant  it  —  dead  ? 

Nay !  I  smile  at  your  shocked  face : 
In  the  morning  she  will  wake, 
Turn  her  dreams  to  sport,  and  make 
All  the  household  glad  and  gay, 
Yet  for  many  a  merry  day, 

With  her  beauty  and  her  grace. 

But  some  summer  't  will  be  said,  — 
"  She  is  lying  all  the  night, 
In  her  pallid  robes  of  white, 
Eyelids  on  the  tired  eyes  pressed, 
Hands  that  cross  upon  the  breast :  " 

We  shall  understand  it —  dead ! 


C 

Yet 't  will  only  be  a  sleep : 

When,  with  songs  and  dewy  light, 
Morning  blossoms  out  of  Night, 
She  will  open  her  blue  eyes 
'Neath  the  palms  of  Paradise, 

While  we  foolish  ones  shall  weep. 


C 


A  PRATER 

0  GOD,  our  Father,  if  we  had  but  truth  ! 

Lost  truth — which  thou  perchance 
Didst  let  man  lose,  lest  all  his  wayward  youth 

He  waste  in  song  and  dance ; 
That  he  might  gain,  in  searching,  mightier  powers 
For  manlier  use  in  those  foreshadowed  hours. 

If,  blindly  groping,  he  shall  oft  mistake, 

And  follow  twinkling  motes 
Thinking  them  stars,  and  the  one  voice  forsake 

Of  Wisdom  for  the  notes 
Which  mocking  Beauty  utters  here  and  there, 
Thou  surely  wilt  forgive  him,  and  forbear  ! 

Oh,  love  us,  for  we  love  thee,  Maker  —  God ! 

And  would  creep  near  thy  hand, 
And  call  thee  "  Father,  Father,"  from  the  sod 

Where  by  our  graves  we  stand, 
And  pray  to  touch,  fearless  of  scorn  or  blame, 
Thy  garment's  hem,  which  Truth  and  Good  we  name. 


I  173 


THE  POLAR  SEA 

AT  the  North,  far  away, 
Kolls  a  great  sea  for  aye, 
Silently,  awfully. 
Round  it  on  every  hand 
Ice-towers  majestic  stand, 
Guarding  this  silent  sea 
Grimly,  invincibly. 
Never  there  man  hath  been, 
Who  hath  come  back  again, 
Telling  to  ears  of  men 
What  is  this  sea  within. 
Under  the  starlight, 
Rippling  the  moonlight, 
Drinking  the  sunlight, 
Desolate,  never  heard  nor  seen, 
Beating  forever  it  hath  been. 

From  our  life  far  away 
Roll  the  dark  waves,  for  aye, 
Of  an  Eternity, 


[   174  ] 

Silently,  awfully. 
Round  it  on  every  hand 
Death's  icy  barriers  stand. 
Guarding  this  silent  sea 
Grimly,  invincibly. 
Never  there  man  hath  been 
Who  could  return  again, 
Telling  to  mortal  ken 
What  is  within  the  sea 
Of  that  Eternity. 

Terrible  is  our  life — 

In  its  whole  blood-written  history 

Only  a  feverish  strife ; 

In  its  beginning,  a  mystery — 

In  its  wild  ending,  an  agony. 

Terrible  is  our  death  — 

Black-hanging  cloud  over  Life's  setting  sun, 

Darkness  of  night  when  the  daylight  is  done. 

In  the  shadow  of  that  cloud, 

Deep  within  that  darkness'  shroud, 

Rolls  the  ever-throbbing  sea ; 

And  we — all  we — 


C   175  1 

Are  drifting  rapidly 
And  floating  silently 
Into  that  unknown  sea — 
Into  Eternity. 


[   176 


THE  FUTURE 

WHAT  may  we  take  into  the  vast  forever? 

That  marble  door 
Admits  no  fruit  of  all  our  long  endeavor, 

No  fame-wreathed  crown  we  wore, 

No  garnered  lore. 

What  can  we  bear  beyond  the  unknown  portal  ? 

No  gold,  no  gains 
Of  all  our  toiling :  in  the  life  immortal 

No  hoarded  wealth  remains, 

Nor  gilds,  nor  stains. 

Naked  from  out  that  far  abyss  behind  us 

We  entered  here : 
No  word  came  with  our  coming,  to  remind  us 

What  wondrous  world  was  near, 

No  hope,  no  fear. 

Into  the  silent,  starless  Night  before  us, 
Naked  we  glide : 


C   177  : 

No  hand  has  mapped  the  constellations  o'er  us, 
No  comrade  at  our  side, 
No  chart,  no  guide. 

Yet  fearless  toward  that  midnight,  black  and  hollow, 

Our  footsteps  fare : 
The  beckoning  of  a  Father's  hand  we  follow  — 

His  love  alone  is  there, 

No  curse,  no  care. 


C   178 


A  DAILY  MIRACLE 

JUNE'S  sunshine  on  the  broad  porch  shines 
Through  tangled  curtains  of  crossing  vines ; 
The  restless  dancing  of  the  leaves 
Dusky  webs  of  shadow  weaves, 
That  wander  on  the  oaken  floor, 
Or  cross  the  threshold  of  the  door. 
Scattered  where'er  their  mazes  run 
Lie  little  phantoms  of  the  sun  : 
Whatever  chink  the  sunbeam  found, 
Crooked  or  narrow,  on  the  ground 
The  shadowy  image  still  is  round. 

So  the  image  of  God  in  the  heart  of  a 
Which  truth  makes,  rifting  as  it  can 
Through  the  narrow  crooked  ways 
Of  our  restless  deeds  and  days, 
Still  is  His  image  —  bright  or  dim  — 
And  scorning  it  is  scorning  Him. 


I  179 


THE  NORTH  WIND 

ALL  night,  beneath  the  flashing  hosts  of  stars, 
The  North  poured  forth  the  passion  of  its  soul 
In  mighty  longings  for  the  tawny  South, 
Sleeping  afar  among  her  orange-blooms. 
All  night,  through  the  deep  canon's  organ-pipes, 
Swept  down  the  grand  orchestral  harmonies 
Tumultuous,  till  the  hills'  rock  buttresses 
Trembled  in  unison. 

The  sun  has  risen, 

But  still  the  storming  sea  of  air  beats  on, 
And  o'er  the  broad  green  slopes  a  flood  of  light 
Comes  streaming  through  the  heavens  like  a  wind, 
Till  every  leaf  and  twig  becomes  a  lyre 
And  thrills  with  vibrant  splendor. 

Down  the  bay 

The  furrowed  blue,  save  that 't  is  starred  with  foam, 
Is  bare  and  empty  as  the  sky  of  clouds ; 
For  all  the  little  sails,  that  yesterday 


C  18°  3 

Flocked  past  the  islands,  now  have  furled  their  wings, 
And  huddled  frightened  at  the  wharves  —  just  as, 
A  moment  since,  a  flock  of  twittering  birds 
Whirled   through   the  almond-trees   like  scattered 

leaves, 
And  hid  beyond  the  hedge. 

How  the  old  oaks 

Stand  stiffly  to  it,  and  wrestle  with  the  storm ! 
While  the  tall  eucalyptus'  plumy  tops 
Tumble  and  toss  and  stream  with  quivering  light. 
Hark !  when  it  lulls  a  moment  at  the  ear, 
The  fir-trees  sing  their  sea-song :  —  now  again 
The  roar  is  all  about  us  like  a  flood ; 
And  like  a  flood  the  fierce  light  shines,  and  burns 
Away  all  distance,  till  the  far  blue  ridge, 
That  rims  the  ocean,  rises  close  at  hand, 
And  high,  Prometheus-like,  great  Tamalpais 
Lifts  proudly  his  grand  front,  and  bears  his  scar, 
Heaven's  scath  of  wrath,  defiant  like  a  god. 

I  thank  thee,  glorious  wind !     Thou  bringest  me 
Something  that  breathes  of  mountain  crags  and 
pines, 


C  l81  1 

Yea,  more  —  from  the  unsullied,  farthest  North, 
Where  crashing  icebergs  jar  like  thunder-shocks, 
And  midnight  splendors  wave  and  fade  and  flame, 
Thou  bring'st  a  keen,  fierce  joy.     So  wilt  thou  help 
The  soul  to  rise  in  strength,  as  some  great  wave 
Leaps  forth,  and  shouts,  and  lifts  the  ocean-foam, 
And  rides  exultant  round  the  shining  world. 


CALIFORNIA  WINTER 

THIS  is  not  winter :  where  is  the  crisp  air, 
And  snow  upon  the  roof,  and  frozen  ponds, 
And  the  star-fire  that  tips  the  icicle  ? 

- 

Here  blooms  the  late  rose,  pale  and  odorless ; 
And  the  vague  fragrance  in  the  garden  walks 
Is  but  a  doubtful  dream  of  mignonette. 
In  some  smooth  spot,  under  a  sleeping  oak 
That  has  not  dreamed  of  such  a  thing  as  spring, 
The  ground  has  stolen  a  kiss  from  the  cool  sun 
And  thrilled  a  little,  and  the  tender  grass 
Has  sprung  untimely,  for  these  great  bright  days, 
Staring  upon  it,  will  not  let  it  live. 
The  sky  is  blue,  and  't  is  a  goodly  time, 
And  the  round,  barren  hillsides  tempt  the  feet ; 
But 't  is  not  winter  :  such  as  seems  to  man 
What  June  is  to  the  roses,  sending  floods 
Of  life  and  color  through  the  tingling  veins. 


It  is  a  land  without  a  fireside.     Far 
Is  the  old  home,  where,  even  this  very  night, 
Roars  the  great  chimney  with  its  glorious  fire, 
And  old  friends  look  into  each  other's  eyes 
Quietly,  for  each  knows  the  other's  trust. 

Heaven  is  not  far  away  such  winter  nights  : 
The  big  white  stars  are  sparkling  in  the  east, 
And  glitter  in  the  gaze  of  solemn  eyes ; 
For  many  things  have  faded  with  the  flowers, 
And  many  things  their  resurrection  wait ; 
Earth  like  a  sepulchre  is  sealed  with  frost, 
And  Morn  and  Even  beside  the  silent  door 
Sit  watching,  and  their  soft  and  folded  wings 
Are  white  with  feathery  snow. 

Yet  even  here 

We  are  not  quite  forgotten  by  the  Hours, 
Could  human  eyes  but  see  the  beautiful 
Save  through  the  glamour  of  a  memory. 
Soon  comes  the  strong  south  wind,  and  shouts  aloud 
Its  jubilant  anthem.     Soon  the  singing  rain 
Comes  from  warm  seas,  and  in  its  skyey  tent 
Enwraps  the  drowsy  world.  And  when,  some  night, 


Its  flowing  folds  invisibly  withdraw, 
Lo  !  the  new  life  in  all  created  things. 
The  azure  mountains  and  the  ocean  gates 
Against  the  lovely  sky  stand  clean  and  clear 
As  a  new  purpose  in  the  wiser  soul. 


INFLUENCES 

FROM  the  scarlet  sea  of  sunset, 

Tossing  up  its  waves  of  fire 
To  a  floating  spray  of  splendor, 

Kindles  through  me  mad  desire 

Now  —  now — now  to  call  her  mine ! 

Prom  the  ashen  gray  of  twilight 
Musings  dark  as  shadows  linger — 

Slowly  creeping,  leave  me  weeping — 
While  in  silence  round  my  finger 
That  long  glossy  lock  I  twine. 

From  the  holy  hush  of  starlight 
Sinks  a  peace  upon  my  spirit, 

And  a  voice  of  hope  and  patience — 
All  the  quiet  night  I  hear  it — 

Whispers,  "  Wait,  for  she  is  thine  !  " 


THE  LOVER'S  SONG 

LEND  me  thy  fillet,  Love ! 

I  would  no  longer  see ; 
Cover  mine  eyelids  close  awhile. 

And  make  me  blind  like  thee. 

Then  might  I  pass  her  sunny  face, 

And  know  not  it  was  fair ; 
Then  might  I  hear  her  voice,  nor  guess 

Her  starry  eyes  were  there. 

Ah  !  banished  so  from  stars  and  sun  — 

Why  need  it  be  my  fate? 
If  only  she  might  deem  me  good 

And  wise,  and  be  my  mate  ! 

Lend  her  thy  fillet,  Love ! 

Let  her  no  longer  see  : 
If  there  is  hope  for  me  at  ah1, 

She  must  be  blind  like  thee. 


A  TROPICAL  MORNING  AT  SEA 

SKY  in  its  lucent  splendor  lifted 

Higher  than  cloud  can  be ; 
Air  with  no  breath  of  earth  to  stain  it, 

Pure  on  the  perfect  sea. 

Crests  that  touch  and  tilt  each  other, 

Jostling  as  they  comb  ; 
Delicate  crash  of  tinkling  water, 

Broken  in  pearling  foam. 

Flashings  —  or  is  it  the  pinewood's  whispers, 

Babble  of  brooks  unseen, 
Laughter  of  winds  when  they  find  the  blossoms, 

Brushing  aside  the  green  ? 

Waves  that  dip,  and  dash,  and  sparkle ; 

Foam-wreaths  slipping  by, 
Soft  as  a  snow  of  broken  roses 

Afloat  over  mirrored  sky. 


Off  to  the  East  the  steady  sun-track 

Golden  meshes  fill  — 
Webs  of  fire,  that  lace  and  tangle, 

Never  a  moment  still. 

Liquid  palms  but  clap  together, 
Fountains,  flower-like,  grow  — 

Limpid  bells  on  stems  of  silver — 
Out  of  a  slope  of  snow. 

Sea-depths,  blue  as  the  blue  of  violets — 

Blue  as  a  summer  sky, 
When  you  blink  at  its  arch  sprung  over 

Where  in  the  grass  you  lie. 

Dimly  an  orange  bit  of  rainbow 
Burns  where  the  low  west  clears, 

Broken  in  air,  like  a  passionate  promise 
Born  of  a  moment's  tears. 

Thinned  to  amber,  rimmed  with  silver, 
Clouds  in  the  distance  dwell, 

Clouds  that  are  cool,  for  all  their  color, 
Pure  as  a  rose-lipped  shell. 


[  189  3 

Fleets  of  wool  in  the  upper  heavens 

Gossamer  wings  unfurl ; 
Sailing  so  high  they  seem  but  sleeping 

Over  yon  bar  of  pearl. 

What  would  the  great  world  lose,  I  wonder- 

Would  it  be  missed  or  no  — 
If  we  stayed  in  the  opal  morning, 

Floating  forever  so? 

Swung  to  sleep  by  the  swaying  water, 

Only  to  dream  all  day  — 
Blow,  salt  wind  from  the  north  upstarting, 

Scatter  such  dreams  away ! 


190 


A  FOOLISH  WISH 

WHY  need  I  seek  some  burden  small  to  bear 

Before  I  go  ? 
Will  not  a  host  of  nobler  souls  be  here, 

Heaven's  will  to  do? 
Of  stronger  hands,  unfailing,  unafraid? 

0  silly  soul !  what  matters  my  small  aid 

Before  I  go ! 

1  tried  to  find,  that  I  might  show  to  them, 

Before  I  go, 
The  path  of  purer  lives :  the  light  was  dim,  — 

I  do  not  know 

If  I  had  found  some  footprints  of  the  way ; 
It  is  too  late  their  wandering  feet  to  stay, 

Before  I  go. 

I  would  have  sung  the  rest  some  song  of  cheer, 

Before  I  go ; 
But  still  the  chords  rang  false ;  some  jar  of  fear, 

Some  jangling  woe. 


c: 

And  at  the  end  I  cannot  weave  one  chord 
To  float  into  their  hearts  my  last  warm  word, 
Before  I  go. 

I  would  be  satisfied  if  I  might  tell, 

Before  I  go, 
That  one  warm  word,  — how  I  have  loved  them  well, 

Could  they  but  know ! 

And  would  have  gained  for  them  some  gleam  of  good ; 
Have  sought  it  long;  still  seek,  —  if  but  I  could ! 

Before  I  go. 

'T  is  a  child's  longing,  on  the  beach  at  play : 

"Before  I  go," 
He  begs  the  beckoning  mother,  "  Let  me  stay 

One  shell  to  throw!" 

'T  is  coming  night;  the  great  sea  climbs  the  shore, — 
"  Ah,  let  me  toss  one  little  pebble  more, 

Before  I  go ! " 


EVERT-DAT  LIFE 

THE  marble-smith,  at  his  morning  task 
Merrily  glasses  the  blue-veined  stone. 

With  stout  hands  circling  smooth.    You  ask, 
"  What  will  it  be,  when  it  is  done  ?  " 

A  shaft  for  a  young  girl's  grave."  Both  hands 
Go  back  with  a  will  to  their  sinewy  play ; 

And  he  sings  like  a  bird,  as  he  swaying  stands, 
A  rollicking  stave  of  Love  and  May. 


BEFORE  SUNRISE  IN  WINTER 

A  PURPLE  cloud  hangs  half  way  down ; 

Sky,  yellow  gold  below ; 
The  naked  trees,  beyond  the  town, 

Like  masts  against  it  show  — 

Bare  masts  and  spars  of  our  earth-ship, 
With  shining  snow-sails  furled ; 

And  through  the  sea  of  space  we  slip, 
That  flows  all  round  the  world. 


C   194 


THE  CHOICE 

ONLY  so  much  of  power  each  day  — 

So  much  nerve-force  brought  in  play ; 

If  it  goes  for  politics  or  trade, 

Ends  gained  or  money  made, 

You  have  it  not  for  the  soul  and  God  — 

The  choice  is  yours,  to  soar  or  plod. 

So  much  water  in  the  rill : 

It  may  go  to  turn  the  miller's  wheel, 

Or  sink  in  the  desert,  or  flow  on  free 
To  brighten  its  banks  in  meadows  green, 
Till  broadening  out,  fair  fields  between, 

It  streams  to  the  moon-enchanted  sea. 
Only  so  little  power  each  day : 
Week  by  week  days  slide  away ; 

Ere  the  life  goes,  what  shall  it  be  — 
A  trade  —  a  game  —  a  mockery, 
Or  the  gate  of  a  rich  Eternity? 


C 


SIBYLLINE  BARTERING 

FATE,  the  gray  Sibyl,  with  kind  eyes  above 

Closely  locked  lips,  brought  youth  a  merry  crew 

Of  proffered  friends ;  the  price,  self -slaying  love. 
Proud  youth  repulsed  them.   She  and  they  with 
drew. 

Then  she  brought  half  the  troop ;  the  cost,  the 
same. 

My  man's  heart  wavered :  should  I  take  the  few, 
And  pay  the  whole  ?  But  while  I  went  and  came, 

Fate  had  decided.    She  and  they  withdrew. 

Once  more  she  came,  with  two.    Now  life's  midday 

Left  fewer  hours  before  me.    Lonelier  grew 
The  house  and  heart.    But  should  the  late  purse 

pay 

The  earlier  price  ?   And  she  and  they  withdrew. 

At  last  I  saw  Age  his  forerunners  send. 
Then  came  the  Sibyl,  still  with  kindly  eyes 


C 

And  close-locked  lips,  and  offered  me  one  friend,  — 
Thee,  my  one  darling !    With  what  tears  and  cries 

I  claimed  and  claim  thee ;  ready  now  to  pay 
The  perfect  love  that  leaves  no  self  to  slay ! 


C   197 


MUSIC 

THE  little  rim  of  moon  hangs  low  —  the  room 
Is  saintly  with  the  presence  of  Night, 
And  Silence  broods  with  knitted  brows  around. 
The  woven  lilies  of  the  velvet  floor 
Blend  with  the  roses  in  the  dusky  light, 
Which  shows  twin  pictures  glimmering  from  the 

walls : 

Here,  a  mailed  group  kneels  by  the  rocky  sea  — 
There,  a  gray  desert,  and  a  well,  and  palms ; 
While  the  faint  perfume  of  a  violet, 
Vague  as  a  dream  of  Spring,  pervades  the  air. 
Where  the  moon  gleams  along  the  organ-front, 
The  crooked  shadow  of  a  dead  branch  stirs 
Like  ghostly  fingers  gliding  through  a  tune. 

Now  rises  one  with  faintly  rustling  robes, 
And  white  hands  search  among  the  glistening  keys. 
Out  of  the  silence  sounds  are  forming  —  tones 
That  seem  to  come  from  infinite  distances,  — 
Soft  trebles  fluttering  down  like  snowy  doves 
Just  dipping  their  swift  wings  in  the  deep  bass 


C   198  ] 

That  crumbles  downward  like  a  crumbling  wave ; 

And  out  of  those  low-gathering  harmonies 

A  voice  arises,  tangled  in  their  maze, 

Then  soaring  up  exultantly  alone, 

While  the  accompaniment  wails  and  complains. 

—  I  am  upon  the  seashore.    'T  is  the  sound 
Of  ocean,  surging  on  against  the  land. 
That  throbbing  thunder  is  the  roar  of  surf 
Beaten  and  broken  on  the  frothy  rocks. 
Those  whispering  trebles  are  the  plashing  waves 
That  ripple  up  the  smooth  sand's  slope,  and  kiss 
The  tinkling  shells  with  coy  lips,  quick  withdrawn ; 
And  over  all,  the  solitary  voice 

Is  the  wind  wandering  on  its  endless  quest. 

—  A  change  comes,  in  a  crash  of  minor  chords. 
I  am  a  dreamer,  waking  from  his  dream 

Into  the  life  to  which  our  life  is  sleep. 

My  soul  is  floating  —  floating,  till  afar 

The  round  Earth  rolls,  with  fleece  of  moonlit  cloud, 

A  globe  of  amber,  gleaming  as  it  goes. 

Deep  in  some  hollow  cavern  of  the  sky 

All  human  life  is  pleading  to  its  God. 

Still  the  accompaniment  wails  and  complains ;  — 

A  wild  confusion  of  entangled  chords, 


C   199   ] 

Kevenge,  and  fear,  and  strong  men's  agony, 
The  shrill  cry  of  despair,  the  slow,  deep  swell 
Of  Time's  long  effort,  sinking  but  to  swell, 
While  woman's  lonely  love,  and  childhood's  faith 
Go  wandering  with  soft  whispers  hand  in  hand. 
Suddenly  from  the  ages  one  pure  soul 
Is  singled  out  to  plead  before  the  Throne ; 
And  then  again  the  solitary  voice 
Peals  up  among  the  stars  from  the  great  throng, 
Catching  from  out  the  storm  all  love,  all  hope, 
All  loveliness  of  life,  and  utters  it. 

Then  the  hushed  music  sobs  itself  to  sleep, 
And  all  is  still,  —  save  the  reluctant  sigh 
That  tells  the  wakening  from  immortal  dreams. 


20° 


THREE  SONGS 

SING  me,  thou  Singer,  a  song  of  gold ! 

Said  a  careworn  man  to  me : 
So  I  sang  of  the  golden  summer  days, 
And  the  sad,  sweet  autumn's  yellow  haze, 
Till  his  heart  grew  soft,  and  his  mellowed  gaze 

Was  a  kindly  sight  to  see. 

Sing  me,  dear  Singer,  a  song  of  love  ! 

A  fair  girl  asked  of  me  : 
Then  I  sang  of  a  love  that  clasps  the  Race, 
Gives  all,  asks  naught  —  till  her  kindled  face 
Was  radiant  with  the  starry  grace 

Of  blessed  Charity. 

Sing  me,  O  Singer,  a  song  of  life ! 

Cried  an  eager  youth  to  me  : 
And  I  sang  of  the  life  without  alloy, 
Beyond  our  years,  till  the  heart  of  the  boy 
Caught  the  golden  beauty,  and  love,  and  joy 

Of  the  great  Eternity. 


201 


DESPAIR  AND  HOPE 

WE  sailed  a  cruise  on  a  summer  sea  — 

I,  and  a  skull  for  company : 

I  in  the  stern  our  course  to  turn, 

And  it  on  the  prow  to  grin  at  me. 

Over  the  deep  heaven,  hung  below, 

Whose  imaged  clouds  lay  white  like  snow, 

Glided  we,  as  the  tide  might  be, 

Slipping  swiftly,  floating  slow. 
Past  the  woods  all  living  green  — 

Save  by  the  marge  some  fading  tree, 
Whose  leaf,  so  early  autumn-touched, 

Would  make  the  skull  to  grin  at  me. 

Past  a  grove  of  fragrant  pine, 
Prom  whose  dusky  depths  of  shade 
Snowy  shaft  and  colonnade 

Marked  a  ruined  altar-shrine ;  — 

And  the  skull's  grim  face  grinned  into  mine. 


202 

Under  the  arch  of  a  vine-clasped  elm 

Leaning  off  from  the  mossy  land, 
Across  the  shallow  the  idle  helm 

Lightly  furrowed  the  silver  sand : 
Down  the  slope  all  clover-sweet 

Danced  a  group  in  childish  glee  — 
Hissed  a  swift  snake  at  their  feet ;  — 

Then  the  skull  grinned  unto  me. 

Into  a  cavern  dim  and  dank 

Crept  we  on  the  creeping  tide  ; 
Shapeless  creatures  rose  and  sank, 

Dripped  with  damp  the  ceiling  wide. 
Darker,  chiller  hung  the  air ; 

Scarcely  I  the  prow  could  see ; 
But  I,  through  the  shadow  there, 

Felt  the  skull  still  grin  at  me. 

Out  of  the  cavern's  thither  side, 
Into  a  mellow,  morn-like  glow, 

Streams  the  ripple-curving  tide ; 
Sounds  of  music  sweeter  grow ; 

Odorous  incense,  softened  air, 

Melodies  so  faint  and  fair, 


Thrill  me  through  with  life  and  love : 
And  all  suddenly  from  the  prow, 
Where  had  seemed  the  skull  just  now, 

Flutters  to  my  breast  a  dove. 


WISDOM  AND  FAME 

A  WILDERNESS,  made  awful  with  the  night  — 
Great  glimmering  trunks  whose  tops  were  hid  in 

gloom, 

Vast  columns  in  the  blackness  broken  off, 
Between  whose  ghostly  forms,  slow-wandering, 
A  company  of  lost  men  sought  a  path. 

Some  groped  among  the  dead  leaves  and  fallen 

boughs 

For  footprints ;  but  the  rattle  of  the  leaves 
And  crook  of  stems  seemed  serpents  coiled  to  strike. 

Some  took  the  momentary  sparks  that  rode 
Upon  their  straining  eyeballs,  for  far  lights, 
And  followed  them. 

Some  stood  apart,  in  vain 
Searching,  with  horror-widened  eyes,  for  stars. 

So,  stumbling  on,  they  circled  round  and  round 
Through  the  same  mazes. 

Then  they  singled  one 
To  climb  a  pinnacled  height,  and  see  from  thence 


C  205  ] 

The  landmarks,  and  to  shout  from  thence  their  course. 
With  aching  sinews,  bleeding  feet,  bruised  hands, 
He  gained  the  height ;  but  when  they  cried  to  him 
They  got  but  maudlin  answers,  —  he  had  found, 
Slaking  hot  thirst,  a  fruit  that  maddened  him. 

Another,  and  another  still  they  sent ; 
But  every  one  that  climbed  found  the  ill  fruit 
And  maddened,  and  gave  back  but  wild  replies  : 
And  still  in  darkness  they  go  wandering,  lost. 


2°6' 


SERENITY 

BROOK, 

Be  still,  — be  still! 
Midnight's  arch  is  broken 
In  thy  ceaseless  ripples. 
Dark  and  cold  below  them 
Runs  the  troubled  water,  — 
Only  on  its  bosom, 
Shimmering  and  trembling, 
Doth  the  glinted  star-shine 

Sparkle  and  cease. 

Life, 

Be  still,  —  be  still! 
Boundless  truth  is  shattered 
On  thy  hurrying  current. 
Rest,  with  face  uplifted, 
Calm,  serenely  quiet ; 
Drink  the  deathless  beauty  — 
Thrills  of  love  and  wonder 
Sinking,  shining,  star-like ; 


C  2°7  3 

Till  the  mirrored  heaven 
Hollow  down  within  thee 
Holy  deeps  unfathomed, 
Where  far  thoughts  go  floating, 
And  low  voices  wander 

Whispering  peace, 


C  208 


THE  RUBY  HEART 

A  CHILD'S  STORY 

UNDER  a  fragrant  blossom-bell 
A  tiny  Fairy  once  did  dwell. 
The  moss  was  bright  about  her  feet, 
Her  little  face  was  fair  and  sweet, 
Her  form  in  rainbow  hues  was  clad, 
And  yet  the  Fairy's  soul  was  sad ; 
For,  of  the  Elves  that  round  her  moved, 
And  in  the  yellow  moonlight  roved, 
There  was  no  Spirit  that  she  loved. 

Many  a  one  there  was,  I  ween, 
Among  the  sprites  that  danced  the  green, 
Whose  hands  were  warm  to  clasp  her  own, 
And  voices  kindly  in  their  tone ; 
But  love  the  fondest  and  the  best 
Awaked  no  answer  in  her  breast : 
Her  heart  unmoved  within  her  slept  — 
And,  "  I  can  never  love  !  "  she  wept. 


C 

She  taught  herself  a  quaint  old  song 
And  crooned  it  over  all  day  long : 

"Heprayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 

All  things  both  great  and  small; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all.7' 

"  But  I,"  she  said,  "  can  never  pray, 
Nor  to  His  mansions  find  the  way, 
For  he  will  suffer  not,  I  know, 
A  creature  unto  Him  to  go 
Who  has  not  loved  His  world  below." 

Slow-wandering  by  the  brook  alone, 
She  chose  a  pure  white  pebble-stone, 
And  carved  it,  sitting  there  apart, 
Into  a  little  marble  heart ; 
She  hung  it  by  her  mossy  bed — 
"  My  heart  will  never  love,"  she  said, 
"  Till  this  white  stone  turn  ruby-red." 

One  night  a  moonbeam  smote  her  face 
And  wakened  her,  and  in  its  place 


C  21°  1 

There  stood  an  angel,  full  of  grace. 
"Dear  child/'  he  said,  "from  far  above 
I  come  to  teach  thee  how  to  love. 
Do  every  day  some  little  deed 
Of  kindness,  some  faint  creature  feed, 
Make  some  hurt  spirit  cease  to  bleed, 
Then  carve  the  record  fair,  at  night, 
Upon  thy  heart  of  marble  white. 
Each  word  shall  turn  to  ruby-red, 
And  so  much  of  thy  task  be  sped ;  — 
For  when  the  whole  is  ruddied  o'er, 
Thy  bosom  shall  be  cold  no  more ; 
The  souls  thy  careless  thoughts  contemn 
Shall  win  thee  by  thy  deeds  to  them.'9 

Upon  the  sorrowful  Fairy  broke 
Like  sudden  sunshine  this  new  hope. 
Each  day  to  some  one's  door  she  took 
A  kindly  act,  or  word,  or  look, 
Whose  record,  fairly  carved  at  night, 
Blushed  out  upon  the  stony  white ; 
Till,  somehow,  wondrously  there  grew 
More  grace  in  every  one  she  knew  — 
Each  little  ugliness  concealed, 


Each  goodness  more  and  more  reveal' d, — 
As,  when  you  watch  the  twilight  through, 
The  sky  seems  one  pure  empty  blue, 
Till,  o'er  the  paling  sunset-bars, 
Suddenly  't  is  one  sweep  of  stars ! 

So  day  by  day  she  found  herself 
Grow  kindlier  to  each  little  elf ; 
Yea,  even  to  the  birds  and  bees, 
And  slender  flowerets  round  her  knees : 
The  very  moss-buds  at  her  feet 
She  came  with  warmer  smile  to  greet, 
Till  now,  at  last,  her  marble  heart 
Was  ruddy,  save  one  little  part 
That  gleamed  all  snowy  as  of  old 
In  the  still  moonbeams,  white  and  cold. 

Her  task  was  almost  done  —  she  knelt 
And  hid  her  glad  wet  eyes,  and  felt 
Her  soul's  first  prayer  steal  up  to  God, 
Like  Spring's  first  violet  from  the  sod. 
Through  all  her  being  softly  stole 
Such  joy  of  gratitude,  her  soul 
Brimmed  over  like  a  brimming  cup  — 


C  212  3 

And  then  a  voice  said,  "  Child,  look  up ! ' 

And  lo !  the  stone  above  her  head 

Was  a  pure  ruby,  starry-red ; 

And  down  among  the  flowers  there  flew, 

Brushing  aside  the  moonlit  dew, 

A  little  snowy  elfin  dove, 

And  nestled  on  her  breast,  to  prove 

Sweet  trust  in  one  whose  heart  was  love. 


C 


TO  CHILD  ANNA 

As  in  the  Spring,  ere  any  flowers  have  come, 

A  vague  and  blossomy  smeh1 
Pervades  the  woods,  all  odors  mixed  in  one, 
As  if  to  tell 

That  they  are  mustering  in  each  sunny  dell, 

So  round  your  childish  form  there  seems  to  cling 

A  sense  of  nameless  grace, 
A  sweet  confusion — budding  hints  of  Spring 
Just  giving  place 

To  graver  woman-shadows  in  your  face. 

I  see  no  longer  the  mere  child  you  are  — 

The  woman  you  might  be 
Stands  in  your  place,  with  eyes  that  gaze  afar : 
Her  face  I  see, 

And  it  is  very  beautiful  to  me. 

The  little  soft  white  hands  you  lay  in  mine 
I  touch  with  reverent  care; 


C   214   ] 

I  see  them  wrinkled  into  many  a  line, 

But  fair — more  fair 
For  every  weary  deed  they  do  and  bear. 

The  fresh  young  mouth,  all  careless  purity, 

Has  faded  from  my  gaze, 
And  all  the  tender  looks,  which  charity 
And  many  patient  days 

Leave  round  the  lips,  seem  now  to  take  its  place. 

Therefore  I  stroke  so  tenderly  your  head, 

Or  watch  your  steps  afar, 
Praying  that  God  His  love  on  you  will  shed  — 
More  faithful  far 

Than  our  blind  human  love  and  watching  are. 


[    215 


THE  WORLD'S  SECRET 

I  KNOW  the  splendor  of  the  Sun, 

And  beauty  in  the  leaves,  and  moss,  and  grass ; 
I  love  the  birds'  small  voices  every  one, 

And  all  the  hours  have  kindness  as  they  pass ; 

But  still  the  heart  can  apprehend 

A  deeper  purport  than  the  brain  may  know : 
I  see  it  at  the  dying  daylight's  end, 

And  hear  it  when  the  winds  begin  to  blow. 

It  strives  to  speak  from  all  the  world, 

Out  of  dumb  earth,  and  moaning  ocean-tides ; 

And  brooding  Night,  beneath  her  pinions  furled, 
Some  message  writ  in  starry  cipher  hides. 

Must  I  go  seeking  everywhere 

The  meanings  that  behind  our  objects  be — 
A  depth  serener  in  the  azure  air, 

A  something  more  than  peace  upon  the  sea  ? 


C  2l6  3 

Not  one  least  deed  one  soul  to  bless  ? 

Unto  the  stern-eyed  Future  shall  I  bear 
Only  the  sense  of  pain  without  redress, 

Self -sickness,  and  a  duh*  and  stale  despair? 

Nay,  let  me  shape,  in  patience  slow, 

My  years,  like  the  holy  child  his  bird  of  clay, 

Till  suddenly  the  clod  its  Master  know, 

And  thrill  with  lif e,  and  soar  with  songs  away. 


C  ^  3 


THE  FOUNTAIN 

WERE  it  not  horrible  — 

After  all  the  dreams  we  dream, 

Our  yearnings  and  our  prayers, 

If  this  "  I ""  were  but  a  stream 

Of  thoughts,  sensations,  joys,  and  pains, 

Which  being  clogged,  no  soul  remains  ? 

Even  as  the  fountain  seems  to  be 

A  shape  of  one  identity, 

But  only  is  a  stream  of  drops, 

And  when  the  swift  succession  stops, 

The  fountain  melts  and  disappears, 

Leaving  no  trace  but  scattered  tears. 

Yet  even  here,  0  foolish  heart, 

Thou  wert  not  cheated  of  thy  part ; 

Were  it  not  better,  even  here, 

To  keep  thy  current  pure  and  clear, 

With  pearly  drops  of  dew  to  wet 

The  amaranth  and  violet, 

And  round  thy  crystal  feet  to  shower 


[    218    1 

Blessings  and  beauty  every  hour — 
Better  than  in  a  sullen  flow 
To  creep  around  the  ground,  and  go 
Wasting  and  sinking  through  the  sand, 
Because  not  always  thus  to  stand  ? 


DISCONTENT 

OH  that  one  could  arise  and  flee 

Unto  blue-eyed  Italy, 

Far  from  mechanical  clank  and  hum  ! 

There  to  sit  by  the  sighing  sea, 

And  to  dream  of  the  days  that  shall  be  —  shall  be  — 

And  the  glory  of  years  to  come : 

Or  on  some  far  ocean-isle, 

Under  the  palm  and  the  cocoa-tree, 

To  build  of  the  coral  boughs  a  home ; 

Or  floating  and  falling  down  the  Nile, 

• 

To  drown  one's  cares  in  the  deeps  of  Time 

And  the  desert's  brooding  mystery. 

Yet  howsoever  we  plot  or  plan, 

In  every  age — through  every  clime  — 

Still  the  littleness  of  man 

Would  follow  us,  fast  as  we  might  flee ; 

And  the  wrangling  world  break  in  on  whatever  is  ten 
der  and  sweet, 

As  on  a  beautiful  tune  the  rattling  and  noise  of  the 
street. 


[    220 


SEEMING  AND  BEING 

THE  brave  old  motto,  —  "  Seem  not —  only  be/'  — 
Would  it  were  set  ablaze  against  the  sky 
In  golden  letters,  where  the  world  must  read ! 
What  is  there  done  for  the  honest  doing's  sake, 
In  these  poor  times  gone  mad  with  self -parade  ? 
There  's  not  a  picture  of  the  Cross  but  bears 
The  painter's  name  as  prominent  as  the  Christ's: 
There  's  not  a  scene,  of  such  peculiar  grace 
That  one  would  fain  forget  men's  meanness  there, 
But  from  the  rocks  some  rascal  clothier's  name 
Stares  in  great  capitals,  till  one  could  wish 
The  knave  hung  from  his  signboard,  for  a  sign : 
There  's  not  a  graveyard  in  the  land,  but  lo ! 
On  the  white  tablets  of  the  dead,  full  cut 
Below  their  sacred  names,  his  shameless  name 
Who  carved  the  marble ! 

Is  it  not  pitiful? 

We  are  all  actors,  and  all  audience. 
Yea,  such  a  dreary  farce  we  make  our  lives, 


C    221     ] 

That  something  is  expected  of  a  man 

Upon  his  deathbed :  "  Hark  ye  now,  good  friends, 

These  fine  last  words,  this  notable  bravery, —  see ! " 

So  even  the  grim  cross-bones  of  awful  Death 

Must  take  an  attitude,  and  the  skull  smirk 

For  a  last  picture. 

Here  is  a  nation,  too, 

(God  help  it !)  that  dare  scarcely  act  its  mind, 
But  walks  the  world's  stage,  quaking  with  the 

thought, 
"  What  will  great  England  think  of  me  for  this  ?  " 

The  poet  scoffs  at  fame,  then  sets  himself, 
Full-titled,  with  a  portrait  at  the  front ; 
Each  beautiful  impatient  soul,  who  left 
The  world  he  scorned,  still  lingered  near  enough 
To  listen,  not  displeased,  and  hear  the  world 
Admiringly  relate  how  he  had  scorned  it ; 
Even  our  great  doubting  Thomas,  in  young  days 
When  he  praised  silence,  did  it  with  loud  speech, 
That  ever  too  distinctly  told,  "  'T  is  I, 
Thomas,  so  noisily  abuse  your  noise ! " 


Is  it  not  enough  for  the  trumpet  that  the  god 
Has  chosen  it  to  sound  his  message  through  — 
Must  the  brass  blare  in  its  own  petty  praise  ? 
And  can  we  never  do  the  right,  and  do  it 
As  though  we  were  alone  upon  the  earth, 
And  the  gods  blind  ? 


C 


WEATHER-BOUND 

THOU  pitiless,  false  sea  ! 
How,  like  a  woman,  thou  wilt  softly  sigh 

With  heaving  breast  where  bubble- jewels  shine, 
Or,  beckoning,  toss  thy  foam-white  arms  on  high, 

And  laugh  with  those  blue  sunny  eyes  of  thine ! 

Ah,  crouching,  creeping  sea  ! 
Thou  tiger-cat !  how,  while  the  winds  make  pause 

To  stroke  thy  long  smooth  back  in  quiet  play, 
Thou  canst  unsheathe  thy  velvet-hidden  claws 

And  spring  all  unawares  upon  thy  prey ! 

Thou  treacherous,  cruel  sea ! 
How  thou  wilt  show  thy  glittering  smile  at  night, 

Hiding  thy  fangs,  hushing  thy  fiendish  cry, 
And  rise  all  gentle  sport  from  licking  white 

The  bones  of  men  that  underneath  thee  lie ! 

0  bitter,  bitter  sea  ! 
Didst  thou  not  fawn  about  my  naked  feet, 


When  I  stood  with  thee  on  the  beach,  and  say 
That  thou  wouldst  bear  me  swiftly  home  to  meet 
My  darling,  waiting  there  in  vain  to-day  ? 

Yea,  thou  most  mighty  sea ! 
Keep  then  that  promise  murmured  on  the  shore ; 

Put  thy  great  shoulders  to  our  loitering  keel, 
Not  as  in  rage  and  wrath  thou  hast  before  — 

Let  the  good  ship  thy  help  gigantic  feel. 

Thou  answerest  me,  0  sea  ! 
Lifting  in  silence,  o'er  the  waters  stilled, 

The  shattered  fragment  of  a  rainbow  fair, 
A  mocking  promise,  ne'er  to  be  fulfilled, 

Based  on  the  waves  and  broken  in  mid-air. 


C 


TO  CHILD  SARA 

I  LOOKED  in  a  dew-drop's  heart  to-day 

As  it  clung  on  a  leaf  of  clover. 
Holding  a  sparkle  of  starry  light, 
Like  a  liquid  drop  of  opal  bright 
With  diamond  dusted  over. 

In  that  least  globe  of  quivering  dew, 

The  sunny  scene  around, 
Diminished  to  a  grass-blade's  width  — 
Scarcely  a  fairy's  finger-breadth  — 

All  imaged  there  I  found : 

The  spreading  oak,  the  fir's  soft  fringe, 
The  grain-field's  brightening  green, 
The  linnet  that  flew  fluttering  by, 
And,  over  all,  the  dear  blue  sky, 
The  bending  boughs  between : 

And  all  the  night,  as  from  its  nest 
It  gazes  up  afar, 


I    226    3 

Its  bosom  holds  the  heavens  deep, 
Whose  constellations  o'er  it  sweep. 
And  mirrors  every  star. 

Child,  is  that  drop  of  dew  —  your  soul  — 

With  mirrored  heaven  as  bright  ? 
(Forgive  me  that  I  ask  of  you, 
Whose  heart  I  know  is  pure  and  true 
And  stainless  as  the  light :) 

The  sunshine,  and  the  starlight  too,  — 

Fair  hope,  and  faith  as  fair, 
Courage,  and  patience,  silent  power, 
And  wisdom  for  each  troubled  hour,  — 

Tell  me,  are  they  all  there  ? 

Your  quiet  grace,  and  kindly  words 
Have  influence  sweet  and  strong ; 
Your  hand  and  voice  can  calm  the  brain, 
And  cheer  the  heavy  hearts  of  men 
With  music  and  with  song : 

Let  the  soul  answer  —  can  it  give 
That  music  clear  and  calm  — 


C 

The  rhythmic  years,  the  holier  aim, 
The  scorn  of  pleasure,  fortune,  fame  — 
To  make  our  life  a  psalm  ? 

All  round  the  house,  your  birthday  morn 

The  budded  orchards  stand ; 
And  we  can  watch  from  every  room 
The  trees  all  blushing  into  bloom  — 
Blossoms  on  every  hand : 

So  may  your  Life  be,  many  a  year, 

A  fair  and  goodly  tree  ; 
Not  blossoming  only,  but  sublime 
With  fruit,  so  hastening  the  time 

When  Earth  shall  Eden  be. 


A  FABLE 

TO    CHILD    ANNA 

ONE  morning,  in  a  Prince's  park, 
Before  the  rising  of  the  lark 
Or  the  first  glimmering  twilight  beam, 
A  Lily  blossomed  by  a  stream ; 
Just  at  the  chillest,  darkest  hour, 
When  frowning  clouds  in  heaven  lower, 
When  shadows  crouch  all  gaunt  and  grim, 
And  every  little  star  is  dim. 

"  0  dreary  world  !  "  the  Lily  sighed : 
Only  the  dreary  wind  replied. 

Soon,  in  the  East  uprising  slow, 
A  cold  gray  dawn  began  to  grow. 
The  Lily  watched  where  all  around 
The  mist  came  creeping  o'er  the  ground, 
And  listened,  while  with  sadder  tone 
The  morning-wind  began  to  moan  : 
But  all  the  more  the  light  drew  on, 
Her  tear-dewed  cheek  was  deathlier  wan,  — 
Each  streak  of  daylight,  as  it  grew, 


[    229    ] 

Revealed  a  world  so  strange  and  new. 
Slowly  the  dawn  crept  up  the  sky 
Like  a  cold,  cruel,  watching  eye. 
Once  from  some  little  wakened  bird 
A  twittering  note  of  joy  she  heard  : 
The  chill  dew  fell  upon  her  head  — 
She  almost  wished  that  she  were  dead ; 
"  There  comes  no  joy  for  me,"  she  said. 

A  gnarled  and  wisdom-wrinkled  Oak 
Which  overheard,  in  answer  spoke  : 

"  0  foolish  little  Lilybell, 
Why  do  you  weep,  when  all  is  well  ? 
Look  up !    Have  faith !    For  by  and  by 
The  sun  is  coming  up  the  sky ; 
All  golden  red  the  heavens  will  glow, 
All  golden  green  the  earth  below ; 
The  birds  their  rippling  songs  will  sing, 
And  wooing  winds  their  spices  bring  : 
And  then  the  Prince  will  hither  come 
To  wander  'mid  his  flowers,  and  some, 
(Ah,  favored  blossoms  !)  bending  down, 
He  plucks  and  places  in  his  crown. 
Look  up,  0  foolish  Lilybell ! 
A  little  while,  and  all  is  well." 


The  Lily  drooped  and  trembled  still  : 
"  The  dawn/'  she  sobbed,  "  is  dim  and  chill ; 
And  if  the  Prince  should  come,  alas ! 
He  will  not  stoop  among  the  grass ; 
I  surely  cannot  please  his  eyes, 
For  I  am  neither  fair  nor  wise : 
He  '11  choose  some  tall  and  stately  tree, 
He  surely  will  not  care  for  me  !  " 

But  now  the  sunrise  was  at  hand, 
Lighting  with  splendor  all  the  land ; 
As  if  a  seraph  stood  below 
With  lifted  pinions  all  aglow, 
Whose  tips  of  fire  still  nearer  came 
In  feathery  plumes  of  floating  flame ; 
While  from  his  hidden  face  the  rays 
Shot  up  and  set  the  heavens  ablaze. 
They  warmed  the  old  Oak's  wrinkled  face, 
And  touched  it  with  a  mellow  grace ; 
Then  dancing  downward  to  his  feet 
They  kissed  the  Lily's  face  so  sweet, 
And  laughed  away  her  foolish  fear 
And  lit  a  gem  in  every  tear ; 
Then  flew  to  greet  the  Master's  eye, 
Who  even  now  was  drawing  nigh. 


C  231   3 

He  saw  the  Lily's  fragile  cup 
With  dew  and  sunlight  brimming  up, 
And,  as  he  marked  each  beauty  well, 
The  petals  pure  as  pearliest  shell, 
And  on  the  lowly  bending  stem 
The  tear-drop  sparkling  like  a  gem, 
The  Prince  was  glad,  and  stooping  down 
Plucked  it,  and  set  it  in  his  crown ; 
And  'mid  the  jewels  glittering  there 
None  shone  so  royally  and  rare, 
For  none  was  half  so  pure  and  fair. 

Dear  child,  't  is  our  ingratitude, 
And  faithless  fear,  and  sullen  mood, 
Darken  a  world  so  bright  and  good ! 
There 's  nothing  beautiful  and  true  — 
There 's  not  a  rift  of  heaven's  blue, 
And  not  a  flower,  or  dancing  leaf, 
But  shames  our  selfish-hearted  grief. 
His  hand  that  feels  the  sparrow's  fall, 
And  builds  the  bee  his  castle-wall, 
And  spreads  the  tiniest  insect's  sail, 
And  tints  the  violet's  purple  veil, 
Will  never  let  His  children  stray 
Or  wander  from  His  arms  away. 


[    232    ] 

To-day  may  seem  all  cold  and  dim  — 
Trust  the  To-morrow  unto  Him. 

'T  is  slander  that  we  often  hear,  — 
"  Hope  whispers  falsehoods  in  our  ear/'  — 
There  's  no  such  lying  voice  as  Fear. 
Hope  is  a  prophet  sent  from  Heaven, 
Fear  is  a  false  and  croaking  raven. 
The  dawn  that  buds  all  gray  and  cold 
Will  blossom  to  a  sky  of  gold ; 
God's  love  shall  like  a  sunrise  stay 
To  lighten  all  the  future  way  — 
Still  brighter  to  the  Perfect  Day. 


THE  CREATION 

A  FOUNTAIN  rusheth  upward  from  God's  throne ; 
Its  streaming  stem  we  name  Eternal  Power  : 
Its  tossing  drops  are  worlds,  that  spin  and  fall, 
While  on  their  spheres  our  little  human  lives 
Like  gleams  and  shadows  swiftly  glance  and  go. 


C  234 


THE  FIRST  CAUSE 

DOUBTLESS  the  linnet,  shut  within  its  cage, 
Thinks  the  fair  child  that  loves  it,  brings  it  seed, 
And  hangs  it,  chirping  to  it,  in  the  sun, 
Is  the  preserver  of  its  little  world. 

Doubtless  the  child,  within  her  nursery  walls, 
Thinks  her  kind  father  is  the  father  of  all 
Those  happy  children,  chattering  on  the  lawn — 
Keeps  yonder  town  as  well  as  this  bright  room, 
And  pours  the  brook  that  sparkles  past  the  door. 

Doubtless  we  think  the  Being  who  made  man, 
The  visible  world,  space  powdered  thick  with  stars, 
The  golden  fruit  whose  core  is  curious  life, 
Created  all  things  —  love,  and  law,  anc^,  death; 
Fate,  the  crowned  forehead ;  Will,  the  sceptred  hand. 

Perchance  —  perchance :  yet  need  it  be  that  He 
Who  planted  us  is  the  Head-gardener?   What 
If  beyond  Him  rose  rank  on  rank,  as  the  bulb 
Is  higher  than  the  crystals  of  its  food, 
And  he  who  sets  it,  higher  than  the  flower, 
And  he  that  owns  the  garden,  more  than  all  ? 


C 

The  great  Cause  works  through  lesser  ones ;  per 
mits 

The  plant  to  bear  dead  buds  on  dying  stems ; 
The  beaver  to  weave  dams  that  the  stream  snaps ; 
The  workman  to  make  watches  that  lose  time, 
Or  organ  pipes  all  jarred  and  out  of  tune. 
Did  not  I  build  a  playhouse  for  my  boys. 
And  made  it  ill,  and  that  loose  plank  fell  down 
And  hurt  the  children  ?    And  did  not  I  learn, 
After  three  trials,  how  to  make  it  well  ? 
Know  we  the  limit  of  the  power  He  gives 
To  lesser  Wills  to  will  imperfectly  ? 
Is  earth  that  limit  ?   Is  the  last  link  man, 
Between  the  finite  and  the  infinite? 
When  that  new  star  flared  out  in  heaven,  and  died, 
Who  knows  what  Spirit,  failing  in  his  plan, 
Dashed  out  his  work  in  wrath,  to  try  anew? 

0  mother  world !  we  stammer  at  thy  knee 
Vainly  our  childish  questions.    'T  is  enough 
For  such  as  we  to  know,  that  on  His  throne, 
Nearer  than  we  can  think,  and  farther  off 
Than  any  mind  can  fathom,  sits  the  One, 
And  sees  to  it — though  pain  and  evil  come, 
And  all  may  not  be  good — that  all  is  well. 


[   236 


SEMELE 

WHAT  were  the  garden-bowers  of  Thebes  to  me  ? 
What  cared  I  for  their  dances  and  their  feasts, 
Whose  heart  awaited  an  immortal  doom? 
The  Greek  youths  mocked  me,  since  I  shunned  in 

scorn 

Them  and  their  praises  of  my  brows  and  hair. 
The  light  girls  pointed  after  me,  who  turned 
Soul-sick  from  their  unending  fooleries. 
Apollo's  noon-glare  wrathf  ully  beat  down 
Upon  the  head  that  would  not  bend  to  him — 
Him  in  his  fuming  anger !  —  as  the  highest. 
In  every  lily's  cup  a  venomous  thing 
Crooked  up  its  hairy  limbs ;  or,  if  I  bent 
To  pluck  a  blue-eyed  blossom  in  the  grass, 
Some  squatted  horror  leered  with  motionless  eyes. 

I  think  the  very  earth  did  hate  my  feet, 
And  put  forth  thistles  to  them,  since  I  loathed 
Her  bare  brown  bosom ;  and  the  scowling  pines 
Menaced  me  with  dark  arms,  and  hissed  their  threats 
Behind  me,  hurrying  through  their  gloom,  to  watch 
(Blurred  in  unsteady  tears  till  all  their  beams 


Dazzled,  and  shrank,  and  grew)  that  oval  ring 
Of  shining  points  that  rift  the  Milky  Way, 
Revealing,  through  their  gap  in  the  dusted  fire, 
The  hollow  awf  ulness  of  night  beyond. 


There  came  a  change :  a  glory  fell  to  me. 
No  more  't  was  Semele,  the  lonely  girl, 
But  Jupiter's  Beloved,  Semele. 
With  human  arms  the  god  came  clasping  me : 
New  life  streamed  from  his  presence ;  and  a  voice 
That  scarce  could  curb  itself  to  the  smooth  Greek 
Now  and  anon  swept  forth  in  those  deep  nights, 
Thrilling  my  flesh  with  awe ;  mysterious  words  — 
I  knew  not  what ;  hints  of  unearthly  things 
That  I  had  felt  on  solemn  summer  noons, 
When  sleeping  earth  dreamed  music,  and  the  heart 
Went  crooning  a  low  song  it  could  not  learn, 
But  wandered  over  it,  as  one  who  gropes 
For  a  forgotten  chord  upon  a  lyre. 


Yea,  Jupiter !   But  why  this  mortal  guise, 
Wooing  as  if  he  were  a  milk-faced  boy? 
Did  I  lack  lovers  ?    Was  my  beauty  dulled, 


[   238   ] 

The  golden  hair  turned  dross,  the  lithe  limbs  shrunk, 
The  deathless  longings  tamed,  that  I  should  seethe 
My  soul  in  love  like  any  shepherd  girl  ? 

One  night  he  sware  to  grant  whate'er  I  asked ; 
And  straight  I  cried,  "  To  know  thee  as  thou  art ! 
To  hold  thee  on  my  heart  as  Juno  does ! 
Come  in  thy  thunder  —  kill  me  with  one  fierce 
Divine  embrace  !     Thine   oath !  —  Now,   Earth,  at 
last!" 


The  heavens  shot  one  swift  sheet  of  lurid  flame : 
The  world  crashed :  from  a  body  scathed  and  torn 
The  soul  leapt  through,  and  found  his  breast,  and  died. 

" Died? "  —  So  the  Theban  maidens  think,  and 

laugh, 

Saying,  "  She  had  her  wish,  that  Semele ! " 
But  sitting  here  upon  Olympus'  height 
I  look  down,  through  that  oval  ring  of  stars, 
And  see  the  far-off  Earth,  a  twinkling  speck  — 
Dust-mote  whirled  up  from  the  Sun's  chariot-wheel  — 
And  pity  their  small  hearts  that  hold  a  man 
As  if  he  were  a  god ;  or  know  the  god  — 
Or  dare  to  know  him  —  only  as  a  man  ! 
—  0  human  love,  art  thou  forever  blind  ? 


A  POET'S  APOLOGY 

TRUTH  cut  on  high  in  tablets  of  hewn  stone, 
Or  on  great  columns  gorgeously  adorned, 
Perchance  were  left  alone, 

Passed  by  and  scorned ; 

i/ 

But  Truth  enchased  upon  a  jewel  rare, 

A  man  would  keep,  and  next  his  bosom  wear. 

So,  many  an  hour,  I  sit  and  carve  my  gems  — 
Ten  spoiled,  for  one  in  purer  beauty  set : 

Not  for  kings'  diadems  — 
Some  amulet 

That  may  be  worn  o'er  hearts  that  toil  and  plod,  — 

Though  but  one  pearl  that  bears  the  name  of  God. 


[    240 


ONE  TOUCH  OF  NATURE 

CRUEL  and  wild  the  battle : 

Great  horses  plunged  and  reared, 

And  through  dust-cloud  and  smoke-cloud, 

Blood-red  with  sunset's  angry  flush, 

You  heard  the  gun-shots  rattle, 

And,  'mid  hoof-tramp  and  rush, 

The  shrieks  of  women  speared. 

For  it  was  Kuss  and  Turcoman,  — 

No  quarter  asked  or  given ; 

A  whirl  of  frenzied  hate  and  death 

Across  the  desert  driven. 

Look !  the  half -naked  horde  gives  way, 

Fleeing  frantic  without  breath, 

Or  hope,  or  will;  and  on  behind 

The  troopers  storm,  in  blood-thirst  blind, 

While,  like  a  dreadful  fountain-play, 

The  swords  flash  up,  and  fall,  and  slay  — 

Wives,  grandsires,  baby  brows  and  gray, 


[   241    ] 

Groan  after  groan,  yell  upon  yell  — 
Are  men  but  fiends,  and  is  earth  hell  ? 

Nay,  for  out  of  the  flight  and  fear 

Spurs  a  Russian  cuirassier ; 

In  his  arms  a  child  he  bears. 

Her  little  foot  bleeds ;  stern  she  stares 

Back  at  the  ruin  of  her  race. 

The  small  hurt  creature  sheds  no  tear. 

Nor  utters  cry;  but  clinging  still 

To  this  one  arm  that  does  not  kill, 

She  stares  back  with  her  baby  face. 

Apart,  fenced  round  with  ruined  gear, 
The  hurrying  horseman  finds  a  space, 
Where,  with  face  crouched  upon  her  knee, 
A  woman  cowers.     You  see  him  stoop 
And  reach  the  child  down  tenderly, 
Then  dash  away  to  join  his  troop. 

How  came  one  pulse  of  pity  there — 
One  heart  that  would  not  slay,  but  save — 
In  all  that  Christ-forgotten  sight  ? 
Was  there,  far  north  by  Neva's  wave, 


[    242    ] 

Some  Kussian  girl  in  sleep-robes  white, 
Making  her  peaceful  evening  prayer. 
That  Heaven's  great  mercy  'neath  its  care 
Would  keep  and  cover  him  to-night? 


THE  CRICKETS  IN  THE  FIELDS 

ONE,  or  a  thousand  voices? — filling  noon 
With  such  an  undersong  and  drowsy  chant 

As  sings  in  ears  that  waken  from  a  swoon. 

And  know  not  yet  which  world  such  murmurs 

haunt : 
Single,  then  double  beats,  reiterant ; 

Far  off  and  near ;  one  ceaseless,  changeless  tune. 

If  bird  or  breeze  awake  the  dreamy  will, 
We  lose  the  song,  as  it  had  never  been ; 

Then  suddenly  we  find  Jt  is  singing  still 

And  had  not  ceased.  —  So,  friend  of  mine,  within 
My  thoughts  one  underthought,  beneath  the  din 

Of  life,  doth  every  quiet  moment  fill. 

Thy  voice  is  far,  thy  face  is  hid  from  me, 
But  day  and  night  are  full  of  dreams  of  thee. 


244 


HEBMIONE 


THE   LOST   MAGIC 

WHITE  in  her  snowy  stone,  and  cold. 
With  azure  veins  and  shining  arms, 

Pygmalion  doth  his  bride  behold, 

Rapt  on  her  pure  and  sculptured  charms. 

Ah  !  in  those  half -divine  old  days 
Love  still  worked  miracles  for  men  ; 

The  gods  taught  lovers  wondrous  ways 
To  breathe  a  soul  in  marble  then. 

He  gazed,  he  yearned,  he  vowed,  he  wept. 

Some  secret  witchery  touched  her  breast ; 
And,  laughing  April  tears,  she  stepped 

Down  to  his  arms  and  lay  at  rest. 

Dear  artist  of  the  storied  land ! 
I  too  have  loved  a  heart  of  stone. 


C  245   ] 

What  was  thy  charm  of  voice  or  hand, 
Thy  secret  spell,  Pygmalion  ? 


II 

INFLUENCES 

If  quiet  autumn  mornings  would  not  come, 

With  golden  light,  and  haze,  and  harvest  wain, 

And  spices  of  the  dead  leaves  at  my  feet ; 

If  sunsets  would  not  burn  through  cloud,  and  stain 

With  fading  rosy  flush  the  dusky  dome ; 

If  the  young  mother  would  not  croon  that  sweet 

Old  sleep-song,  like  the  robin's  in  the  rain ; 

If  the  great  cloud-ships  would  not  float  and  drift 

Across  such  blue  all  the  calm  afternoon ; 

If  night  were  not  so  hushed ;  or  if  the  moon 

Might  pause  forever  by  that  pearly  rift, 

Nor  fill  the  garden  with  its  flood  again ; 

If  the  world  were  not  what  it  still  must  be, 

Then  might  I  live  forgetting  love  and  thee. 


C   246  ] 
III 

THE    DEAD    LETTER 

The  letter  came  at  last.   I  carried  it 
To  the  deep  woods  unopened.   All  the  trees 
Were  hushed,  as  if  they  waited  what  was  writ, 
And  feared  for  me.     Silent  they  let  me  sit 
Among  them ;  leaning  breathless  while  I  read, 
And  bending  down  above  me  where  they  stood. 
A  long  way  off  I  heard  the  delicate  tread 
Of  the  light-footed  loiterer,  the  breeze, 
Come  walking  toward  me  in  the  leafy  wood. 
I  burned  the  page  that  brought  me  love  and  woe. 
At  first  it  writhed  to  feel  the  spires  of  flame, 
Then  lay  quite  still;  and  o'er  each  word  there  came 
Its  white  ghost  of  the  ash,  and  burning  slow 
Each  said :  "  You  cannot  kill  the  spirit ;  know 
That  we  shall  haunt  you,  even  till  heart  and  brain 
Lie  as  we  lie  in  ashes  —  all  in  vain." 


C 


IV 
THE    SONG    IN    THE    NIGHT 

In  the  deep  night  a  little  bird 
Wakens,  or  dreams  he  is  awake  : 

Cheerily  clear  one  phrase  is  heard, 

And  you  almost  feel  the  morning  break. 

In  the  deep  dark  of  loss  and  wrong, 
One  face  like  a  lovely  dawn  will  thrill, 

And  all  night  long  at  my  heart  a  song 
Suddenly  stirs  and  then  is  still. 


248 


REPROOF  IN  LOVE 

BECAUSE  we  are  shut  out  from  light, 
Each  of  the  other's  look  and  smile ; 

Because  the  arms'  and  lips'  delight 
Are  past  and  dead,  a  weary  while  ; 

Because  the  dawn,  that  joy  has  brought, 
Brings  now  but  certainty  of  pain, 

Nothing  for  you  and  me  has  bought 
The  right  to  live  our  lives  in  vain. 

Take  not  away  the  only  lure 

That  leads  me  on  my  lonely  way, 

To  know  you  noble,  sweet,  and  pure, 
Great  in  least  service,  day  by  day. 


TEMPTED 

YES,  I  know  what  you  say  : 
Since  it  cannot  be  soul  to  soul, 

Be  it  flesh  to  flesh,  as  it  may ; 
But  is  Earth  the  whole? 

Shall  a  man  betray  the  Past 

For  all  Earth  gives  ? 
"  But  the  Past  is  dead  ?  "    At  last, 
It  is  all  that  lives. 

Which  were  the  nobler  goal  — 
To  snatch  at  the  moment's  bliss, 

Or  to  swear  I  will  keep  my  soul 
Clean  for  her  kiss  ? 


ALONE 

STILL  earth  turns  and  pulses  stir, 
And  each  day  hath  its  deed ; 

But  if  I  be  dead  to  her, 
What  is  the  life  I  lead? 

Cares  the  cuckoo  for  the  wood, 
When  the  red  leaves  are  down? 

Stays  the  robin  near  the  brood, 
When  they  are  fledged  and  flown? 

Yea,  we  live ;  the  common  air 
To  both  its  bounty  brings. 

Mockery !    Can  the  absent  share 
The  half -forgotten  things? 

Barren  comfort  fancy  doles 

To  him  that  truly  sees ; 
Sullen  Earth  can  sever  souls 

Far  as  the  Pleiades. 


C 

Take  thy  toys,  stepmother  Earth,  — 
Take  force  of  limb  and  brain ; 

All  thy  gifts  are  little  worth, 
Till  her  I  find  again. 

Grass  may  spring  and  buds  may  stir,- 
Why  should  mine  eyes  take  heed  ? 

For  if  I  be  dead  to  her, 
Then  am  I  dead  indeed. 


[    252 


TO  A  MAID  DEMURE 

OFTEN  when  the  night  is  come, 
With  its  quiet  group  at  home, 
While  they  broider,  knit,  or  sew, 
Kead,  or  chat  in  voices  low, 
Suddenly  you  lift  your  eyes 
With  an  earnest  look,  and  wise ; 
But  I  cannot  read  their  lore,  — 
Tell  me  less,  or  tell  me  more. 

Like  a  picture  in  a  book, 
Pure  and  peaceful  is  your  look, 
Quietly  you  walk  your  ways; 
Steadfast  duty  fills  the  days. 
Neither  tears  nor  fierce  delights, 
Feverish  days  nor  tossing  nights, 
Any  troublous  dreams  confess,  — 
Tell  me  more,  or  tell  me  less. 

Swift  the  weeks  are  on  the  wing; 
Years  are  brief,  and  love  a  thing 


n  253  3 


Blooming,  fading,  like  a  flower; 
Wake  and  seize  the  little  hour. 
Give  me  welcome,  or  farewell; 
Quick !  I  wait !    And  who  can  tell 
What  to-morrow  may  befall, — 
Love  me  more,  or  not  at  all. 


254  ] 


THE  COUP  DE  GRACE 

IF  I  were  very  sure 
That  all  was  over  betwixt  you  and  me— 

That,  while  this  endless  absence  I  endure 
With  but  one  mood,  one  dream,  one  misery 
Of  waiting,  you  were  happier  to  be  free,  — 

Then  I  might  find  again 
In  cloud  and  stream  and  all  the  winds  that  blow, 

Yea,  even  in  the  faces  of  my  fellow-men, 
The  old  companionship ;  and  I  might  know 
Once  more  the  pulse  of  action,  ere  I  go. 

But  now  I  cannot  rest, 
While  this  one  pleading,  querulous  tone  without 

Breaks  in  and  mars  the  music  in  my  breast. 
I  open  the  closed  door  —  lo !  all  about, 
What  seem  your  lingering  footprints;   then  I 
doubt. 


C  255   ] 

Waken  me  from  this  sleep ! 
Strike  fearless,  let  the  naked  truth-edge  gleam ! 

For  while  the  beautiful  old  past  I  keep, 
I  am  a  phantom,  and  all  mortals  seem 
But  phantoms,  and  my  life  fades  as  a  dream. 


c; 


THE  WORLD  RUNS  ROUND 

«r 

FOR  THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  OVERLAND  MAGAZINE,  SAN 
FRANCISCO,  1884 

THE  world  runs  round, 
And  the  world  runs  well ; 
And  at  heaven's  bound, 
Weaving  what  the  hours  shall  tell 
Of  the  future  way. 
Sit  the  great  Noras,  sisters  gray. 
Now  a  thread  of  doom  and  hate, 
Now  a  skein  of  life  and  love, — 
Whether  hearing  shriek  or  psalm, 
Hearts  that  curse  or  pray, 
Most  composed  and  very  calm 
Is  their  weaving,  soon  and  late. 

One  man's  noisy  years  go  by, 
Rich  to  the  crowd's  shallow  eye, 
Full  of  big  and  empty  sound, 
Brandished  gesture,  voice  profound, 
Blustering  benevolence, 


C  257  3 

Thin  in  deeds  and  poor  in  pence. 

Out  of  it  all,  so  loud  and  long. 

What  one  thread  that 's  clean  and  strong 

To  weave  the  coming  good, 

Can  the  great  Norns  find  ? 

But  where  some  poor  child  stood, 

And  shrank,  and  wept  its  f  aultiness, 

Out  of  that  little  life  so  blind 

The  great  web  takes  a  golden  strand 

That  shall  shine  and  that  shall  stand 

The  whole  wide  world  to  bless. 

One  man  walks  in  silk : 
Honey  and  milk 
Flow  through  his  days. 
Corn  loads  his  wains, 
He  hath  all  men's  praise, 
He  sees  his  heart's  desire. 
In  all  his  veins 

What  can  the  sorrowful  Norns 
Find  of  heroic  fire  ? 
Another  finds  his  ways 
All  blocked  and  barred. 
Lonely,  he  grapples  hard, 


C 

Sets  teeth  and  bleeds. 
Then  the  glad  Norns 
Know  he  succeeds, 
With  victory  wrought 
Greater  than  he  sought. 

When  will  the  world  believe 

Force  is  for  him  that  is  met  and  fought : 

Storm  hath  no  song  till  the  pine  resists ; 

Lightning  no  flame  when  it  runs  as  it  lists ; 

So  do  the  wise  Norns  weave. 

The  world  runs  round, 

And  the  world  runs  well : 

It  needs  no  prophet,  when  evil  is  found, 

Good  to  foretell. 

Many  the  voices 
Ruffling  the  air : 
This  one  rejoices, 
That  in  despair 
Past  the  sky-bars 
Climbs  to  the  stars. 

One  voice  is  heard 
By  the  ocean's  shore, 


C 

Speaking  a  word 
Quiet  and  sane, 

Amid  the  human  rush  and  roar 
Like  a  robin's  song  in  the  rain. 
The  red  gold  of  the  sun 
Seems  to  stream  in  power 
Already  from  behind  the  shower 
When  that  song  's  begun. 

It  doth  not  insist,  or  claim ; 

You  may  hear,  or  go : 

It  clamors  not  for  gain  or  fame, 

Tranquilly  and  slow 

It  speaketh  unafraid, 

Calls  the  spade,  spade, 

With  the  large  sense  mature 

Of  him  that  hath  both  sat  and  roved, 

And  with  a  solemn  undercurrent  pure, 

As  his  that  now  hath  lived  and  loved. 

Brightened  with  glimpse  and  gleam 

Of  mother- wit  — 

There  is  more  salt  in  it, 

More  germ  and  sperm 

Of  the  great  things  to  be, 

Than  louder  notes  men  speak  and  sing. 


[    260    ] 

It  is  a  voice  of  Spring, 
Clear  and  firm. 
Tones  prophetic  in  it  flow, 
Steady  and  strong, 
Yet  soft  and  low  — 
An  excellent  thing  in  song. 
"  I  can  wait,"  saith  merry  Spring, 
If  the  rain  runneth,  and  the  wind  hummeth, 
And  the  mount  at  morn  be  hoar  with  snow, 
In  the  frost  the  violet  dozes, 
Wind  and  rain  bear  breath  of  roses, 
And  the  great  summer  cometh 
Wherein  all  things  shall  gayly  bloom  and  grow. 
Long  may  the  voice  be  found, 
Potent  its  spell, 
While  the  world  runs  round, 
And  the  world  runs  well. 


C    261 


SUNDAY 

NOT  a  dread  cavern,  hoar  with  damp  and  mould, 
Where  I  must  creep,  and  in  the  dark  and  cold, 

Offer  some  awful  incense  at  a  shrine 

That  hath  no  more  divine 
Than  that  *t  is  far  from  life,  and  stern,  and  old ; 

But  a  bright  hilltop  in  the  breezy  air, 

Full  of  the  morning  freshness  high  and  clear, 

Where  I  may  climb  and  drink  the  pure,  new  day, 

And  see  where  winds  away 
The  path  that  God  would  send  me,  shining  fair. 


ON  SECOND  THOUGHT 

THE  end  's  so  near, 

It  is  all  one 
What  track  I  steer, 

What  work  ?s  begun. 

It  is  all  one 

If  nothing 's  done, 
The  end 's  so  near ! 

The  end 's  so  near, 
It  is  all  one 

What  track  thou  steer, 
What  work 's  begun  — 
Some  deed,  some  plan, 
As  thou  Jrt  a  man  ! 

The  end  's  so  near ! 


C 


HIS  LOST  DAY 

GROWING  old,  and  looking  back 
Wistfully  along  his  track, 
I  have  heard  him  try  to  tell, 
With  a  smile  a  little  grim, 
Why  a  world  he  loved  so  well 
Had  no  larger  fruit  of  him  :  — 

'T  was  one  summer,  when  the  time 
Loitered  like  drowsy  rhyme, 
Sauntering  on  his  idle  way 
Somehow  he  had  lost  a  day. 
Whether  't  was  the  daisies  meek, 
Keeping  Sabbath  all  the  week, 
Birds  without  one  work-day  even, 
Or  the  little  pagan  bees, 
Busy  all  the  sunny  seven,  — 
Whether  sleep  at  afternoon, 
Or  much  rising  with  the  moon, 
Couching  with  the  morning  star, 
Or  enchantments  like  to  these, 
Had  confused  his  calendar,  — 


[   264  3 

"  It  is  Saturday/'  men  said. 
"Nay,  't  is  Friday/'  obstinate 

Clung  the  notion  in  his  head. 

Had  the  cloudy  sisters  three 

In  their  weaving  of  his  fate, 

Dozed,  and  dropped  a  stitch  astray? 

"  'T  was  the  losing  of  that  day 
Cost  my  fortune,"  he  would  say. 
On  that  day  I  should  have  writ 
Screeds  of  wisdom  and  of  wit ; 
Should  have  sung  the  missing  song, 
Wonderful,  and  sweet,  and  strong ; 
Might  have  solved  men's  doubt  and  dream 
With  some  waiting  truth  supreme. 
If  another  thing  there  be 
That  a  groping  hand  may  miss 
In  a  twilight  world  like  this, 
Those  lost  hours  its  grace  and  glee 
Surely  would  have  brought  to  me." 


C 


FERTILITY 

CLEAR  water  on  smooth  rock 

Could  give  no  foothold  for  a  single  flower, 

Or  slenderest  shaft  of  grain : 

The  stone  must  crumble  under  storm  and  rain  — 

The  forests  crash  beneath  the  whirlwind's  power  - 

And  broken  boughs  from  many  a  tempest-shock, 

And  fallen  leaves  of  many  a  wintry  hour, 

Must  mingle  in  the  mould, 

Before  the  harvest  whitens  on  the  plain, 

Bearing  an  hundred-fold. 

Patience,  0  weary  heart ! 

Let  all  thy  sparkling  hours  depart, 

And  all  thy  hopes  be  withered  with  the  frost, 

And  every  effort  tempest-tost  — 

So,  when  all  life's  green  leaves 

Are  fallen,  and  mouldered  underneath  the  sod, 

Thou  shalt  go  not  too  lightly  to  thy  God, 

But  heavy  with  full  sheaves. 


[   266 


THE  MYSTERY 

I  NEVER  know  why  't  is  I  love  thee  so : 
I  do  not  think  't  is  that  thine  eyes  for  me 
Grow  bright  as  sudden  sunshine  on  the  sea ; 
Nor  for  thy  rose-leaf  lips,  or  breast  of  snow, 
Or  voice  like  quiet  waters  where  they  flow. 

So  why  I  love  thee  well  I  cannot  tell : 
Only  it  is  that  when  thou  speak' st  to  me 
'T  is  thy  voice  speaks,  and  when  thy  face  I  see 
It  is  thy  face  I  see ;  and  it  befell 
Thou  wert,  and  I  was,  and  I  love  thee  well. 


[  267   J 


THE  LOST  BIRD 

WHAT  cared  she  for  the  free  hearts  ?   She  would  com 
fort 

The  prisoned  one : 
What  recked  I  of  the  wanton  other  singers? 

She  sang  for  me  alone  — 

Was  all  my  own,  my  own  ! 

But  when  they  loaded  me  with  heavier  fetters, 

And  chained  I  lay, 
How  could  she  know  I  longed  to  reach  her  window  ? 

Athirst  the  livelong  day, 

At  eve  she  fled  away. 

Still  stands  her  cage  wide  open  at  the  casement, 

In  sun  and  rain, 

Though  years  have  gone,  and  rust  has  thickly  gath 
ered,  — 

My  watching  all  in  vain ; 

She  will  not  come  again. 


C  268  H 

Against  its  wires  I  strum  with  idle  fingers 

From  morn  to  noon ; 
I  swing  the  door  with  loitering  touch,  and  listen 

To  hear  that  old-time  tune. 

Sweet  as  the  soul  of  June. 

My  bird,  my  silver  voice  that  cheered  my  prison, 

Hushed,  lost  to  me : 
And  still  I  wait  for  death,  in  chains,  forsaken, 

(Soon  may  the  summons  be !) 

But  she  is  free. 

—  "Is  free?" 

Nay,  in  the  palace  porches  caught  and  hanging, 
Who  says  't  is  gay  — 

The  song  the  false  prince  hears  ?  who  says  her  sing 
ing, 

From  day  to  summer  day, 
Grieves  not  her  heart  away  ? 

But  when  my  dream  comes  true  in  that  last  sleeping, 

And  death  makes  free, 
Against  the  blue  shall  snowy  wings  come  sweeping, 

My  bird  flown  back  to  me, 

Mine  for  eternity ! 


WARNING 

BE  true  to  me !    For  there  will  dawn  a  day 
When  thou  wilt  find  the  faith  that  now  I  see, 
Bow  at  the  shrines  where  I  must  bend  the  knee, 
Knowing  the  great  from  small.    Then  lest  thou  say, 
"  Ah  me,  that  I  had  never  flung  away 
His  love  who  would  have  stood  so  close  to  me 
Where  now  I  walk  alone  "  —  lest  there  should  be 
Such  vain  regret,  Love,  oh  be  true !    But  nay, 
Not  true  to  me :  true  to  thine  own  high  quest 
Of  truth ;  the  aspiration  in  thy  breast, 
Noble  and  blind,  that  pushes  by  my  hand, 
And  will  not  lean,  yet  cannot  surely  stand ; 
True  to  thine  own  pure  heart,  as  mine  to  thee 
Beats  true.     So  shalt  thou  best  be  true  to  me. 


[    270 


SUMMER  AFTERNOON 

FAR  in  hollow  mountain  canons 
Brood  with  purple-folded  pinions, 
Flocks  of  drowsy  distance-colors  on  their  nests ; 
And  the  bare  round  slopes  for  forests 
Have  cloud-shadows,  floating  forests, 
On  their  breasts. 

Winds  are  wakening  and  dying, 
Questions  low  with  low  replying, 
Through  the  oak  a  hushed  and  trembling  whis 
per  goes : 

Faint  and  rich  the  air  with  odors, 
Hyacinth  and  spicy  odors 
Of  the  rose. 

Even  the  flowerless  acacia 
Is  one  flower — such  slender  stature, 
With  its  latticed  leaves  a-tremble  in  the  sun : 
They  have  shower-drops  for  blossoms, 
Quivering  globes  of  diamond  blossoms, 
Every  one. 


C 

In  the  blue  of  heaven  holy 
Clouds  go  floating,  floating  slowly, 
Pure  in  snowy  robe  and  sunny  silver  crown ; 
And  they  seem  like  gentle  angels  — 
Leisure-full  and  loitering  angels, 
Looking  down. 

Half  the  birds  are  wild  with  singing, 
And  the  rest  with  rhythmic  winging 
Sing  in  melody  of  motion  to  the  sight; 
Every  little  sparrow  twitters, 
Cheerily  chirps,  and  cheeps,  and  twitters 
His  delight. 

Sad  at  heart  amid  the  splendor, 
Dull  to  all  the  radiance  tender, 
What  can  I  for  such  a  world  give  back  again  ? 
Could  I  only  hint  the  beauty  — 
Some  least  shadow  of  the  beauty, 
Unto  men ! 


272 


SUMMER  NIGHT 

FROM  the  warm  garden  in  the  summer  night 

All  faintest  odors  came :  the  tuberose  white 

Glimmered  in  its  dark  bed,  and  many  a  bloom 

Invisibly  breathed  spices  on  the  gloom. 

It  stirred  a  trouble  in  the  man's  dull  heart, 

A  vexing,  mute  unrest :  "  Now  what  thou  art, 

Tell  me !  "  he  said  in  anger.     Something  sighed, 

"  I  am  the  poor  ghost  of  a  ghost  that  died 

In  years  gone  by."    And  he  recalled  of  old 

A  passion  dead —  long  dead,  even  then —  that  came 

And  haunted  many  a  night  like  this,  the  same 

In  their  dim  hush  above  the  fragrant  mould 

And  glimmering  flowers,  and  troubled  all  his  breast. 

"  Best !  "  then  he  cried ;  "  perturbed  spirit,  rest !  " 


c;  273 


A  CALIFORNIAFS  DREAMS 

A  THUNDER-STORM  of  the  olden  days ! 

The  red  sun  sinks  in  a  sleepy  haze ; 

The  sultry  twilight,  close  and  still, 

Muffles  the  cricket's  drowsy  trill. 

Then  a  round-topped  cloud  rolls  up  the  west, 

Black  to  its  smouldering,  ashy  crest, 

And  the  chariot  of  the  storm  you  hear, 

With  its  jarring  axle  rumbling  near ; 

Till  the  blue  is  hid,  and  here  and  there 

The  sudden,  blinding  lightnings  glare. 

Scattering  now  the  big  drops  fall, 

Till  the  rushing  rain  in  a  silver  wall 

Blurs  the  line  of  the  bending  elms, 

Then  blots  them  out  and  the  landscape  whelms. 

A  flash  —  a  clap,  and  a  rumbling  peal : 

The  broken  clouds  the  blue  reveal ; 

The  last  bright  drops  fall  far  away, 

And  the  wind,  that  had  slept  for  heat  all  day, 

With  a  long-drawn  sigh  awakes  again 

And  drinks  the  cool  of  the  blessed  rain. 


C  274  3 

November !  night,  and  a  sleety  storm : 

Close  are  the  ruddy  curtains,  warm 

And  rich  in  the  glow  of  the  roaring  grate. 

It  may  howl  outside  like  a  baffled  fate, 

And  rage  on  the  roof,  and  lash  the  pane 

With  its  fierce  and  impotent  wrath  in  vain. 

Sitting  within  at  our  royal  ease 

We  sing  to  the  chime  of  the  ivory  keys, 

And  feast  our  hearts  from  script  and  score 

With  the  wealth  of  the  mellow  hearts  of  yore. 

A  winter's  night  on  a  world  of  snow ! 
Not  a  sound  above,  not  a  stir  below : 
The  moon  hangs  white  in  the  icy  air, 
And  the  shadows  are  motionless  everywhere. 
Is  this  the  planet  that  we  know  — 
This  silent  floor  of  the  ghostly  snow  ? 
Or  is  this  the  moon,  so  still  and  dead, 
And  yonder  orb  far  overhead, 
With  its  silver  map  of  plain  and  sea, 
Is  that  the  earth  where  we  used  to  be  ? 
Shall  we  float  away  in  the  frosty  blue 
To  that  living,  summer  world  we  knew, 
With  its  full,  hot  heart-beats  as  of  old, 
Or  be  frozen  phantoms  of  the  cold  ? 


C  275   ] 

A  river  of  ice,  all  blue  and  glare, 

Under  a  star-shine  dim  and  rare. 

The  sheeny  sheet  in  the  sparkling  light 

Is  ribbed  with  slender  wisps  of  white  — 

Crinkles  of  snow,  that  the  flying  steel 

Lightly  crunches  with  ringing  heel. 

Swinging  swift  as  the  swallows  skim, 

You  round  the  shadowy  river's  rim : 

Falling  somewhere  out  of  the  sky 

Hollow  and  weird  is  the  owlet's  cry ; 

The  gloaming  woods  seem  phantom  hosts, 

And  the  bushes  cower  in  the  snow  like  ghosts. 

Till  the  tinkling  feet  that  with  you  glide 

Skate  closer  and  closer  to  your  side, 

And  something  steals  from  a  furry  muff, 

And  you  clasp  it  and  cannot  wonder  enough 

That  a  little  palm  so  soft  and  fair 

Could  keep  so  warm  in  the  frosty  air. 

'T  is  thus  we  dream  in  our  tranquil  clime, 
Rooted  still  in  the  olden  time ; 
Longing  for  all  those  glooms  and  gleams 
Of  passionate  Nature's  mad  extremes. 
Or  was  it  only  our  hearts,  that  swelled 
With  the  youth  and  life  and  love  they  held  ? 


FULFILLMENT 

ALL  the  skies  had  gloomed  in  gray, 
Many  a  week,  day  after  day. 
Nothing  came  the  blank  to  fill, 
Nothing  stirred  the  stagnant  will. 
Winds  were  raw ;  buds  would  not  swell : 
Some  malign  and  sullen  spell 
Soured  the  currents  of  the  year, 
And  filled  the  heart  with  lurking  fear. 

In  his  room  he  moped  and  glowered, 
Where  the  leaden  daylight  lowered ; 
Drummed  the  casement,  turned  his  book, 
Hating  nature's  hostile  look. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  day 
When  he  flung  his  gloom  away. 
Something  hinted  help  was  near  : 
Winds  were  fresh  and  sky  was  clear ; 
Light  he  stepped,  and  firmly  planned,  — 
Some  good  news  was  close  at  hand 


C 

Truly :  for  when  day  was  done, 
He  was  lying  all  alone, 
Fretted  pulse  had  ceased  to  beat, 
Very  still  were  hands  and  feet, 
And  the  robins  through  the  long 
Twilight  sang  his  slumber  song. 


THE  SINGER 

SILLY  bird ! 

When  his  mate  is  near, 

Not  a  note  of  singing  shall  you  hear. 

Take  his  little  love  away. 

Half  the  livelong  day 

Will  his  tune  be  heard  — 

Silly  bird! 

Sunny  days 

Silent  basks  he  in  the  light, 

Little  sybarite ! 

But  when  all  the  room 

Darkens  in  the  gloom, 

And  the  rain 

Pours  and  pours  along  the  pane, 

He  is  bent 

(Ah,  the  small  inconsequent !) 

On  defying  all  the  weather ; 

Rain  and  cloud  and  storm  together 

Naught  to  him, 

Singing  like  the  seraphim. 


C 

So  we  know  a  poet's  ways : 
Sunny  days, 
Silent  he 

In  his  fine  serenity ; 
But  if  winds  are  loud, 
He  will  pipe  beneath  the  cloud ; 
And  if  one  is  far  away, 
Sings  his  heart  out,  as  to  say,  — 
"  It  may  be 
She  will  hear  and  come  to  me." 


^80 


THE  THINGS  THAT  WILL  NOT 
DIE 

WHAT  am  I  glad  will  stay  when  I  have  passed 
From  this  dear  valley  of  the  world,  and  stand 

On  yon  snow-glimmering  peaks,  and  lingering  cast 

From  that  dim  land 
A  backward  look,  and  haply  stretch  my  hand* 

Regretful,  now  the  wish  comes  true  at  last? 

Sweet  strains  of  music  I  am  glad  will  be 

Still  wandering  down  the  wind,  for  men  will  hear 

And  think  themselves  from  all  their  care  set  free, 

And  heaven  near 
When  summer  stars  burn  very  still  and  clear, 

And  waves  of  sound  are  swelling  like  the  sea. 

And  it  is  good  to  know  that  overhead 

Blue  skies  will  brighten,  and  the  sun  will  shine, 

And  flowers  be  sweet  in  many  a  garden  bed, 

And  all  divine, 
(For  are  they  not,  0  Father,  thoughts  of  thine  ?) 

Earth's  warmth  and  fragrance  shall  on  men  be  shed, 


C  281  3 

And  I  am  glad  that  Night  will  always  come, 
Hushing  all  sounds,  even  the  soft-voiced  birds, 

Putting  away  all  light  from  her  deep  dome, 

Until  are  heard 
In  the  wide  starlight's  stillness,  unknown  words, 

That  make  the  heart  ache  till  it  find  its  home. 

And  I  am  glad  that  neither  golden  sky, 

Nor  violet  lights  that  linger  on  the  hill, 
Nor  ocean's  wistful  blue  shall  satisfy, 
But  they  shall  fill 

With  wild  unrest  and  endless  longing  still 
The  soul  whose  hope  beyond  them  all  must  lie. 

And  I  rejoice  that  love  shall  never  seem 

So  perfect  as  it  ever  was  to  be, 
But  endlessly  that  inner  haunting  dream 
Each  heart  shall  see 

Hinted  in  every  dawn's  fresh  purity, 
Hopelessly  shadowed  in  each  sunset's  gleam. 

And  though  warm  mouths  will  kiss  and  hands  will 

cling, 
And  thought  by  silent  thought  be  understood, 

\ 


C 

I  do  rejoice  that  the  next  hour  will  bring 

That  far-off  mood, 

That  drives  one  like  a  lonely  child  to  God, 
Who  only  sees  and  measures  everything. 

And  it  is  well  that  when  these  feet  have  pressed 
The  outward  path  from  earth,  't  will  not  seem  sad 

To  them  that  stay ;  but  they  who  love  me  best 

Will  be  most  glad 
That  such  a  long  unquiet  now  has  had, 

At  last,  a  gift  of  perfect  peace  and  rest. 


C   283 


THE  SECRET 

A  TIDE  of  sun  and  song  in  beauty  broke 
Against  a  bitter  heart,  where  no  voice  woke 
Till  thus  it  spoke :  — 

What  was  it,  in  the  old  time  that  I  know, 
That  made  the  world  with  inner  beauty  glow, 
Now  a  vain  show  ? 

Still  dance  the  shadows  on  the  grass  at  play, 
Still  move  the  clouds  like  great,  calm  thoughts  away, 
Nor  haste,  nor  stay. 

But  I  have  lost  that  breath  within  the  gale, 
That  light  to  which  the  daylight  was  a  veil, 
The  star-shine  pale. 

Still  all  the  summer  with  its  songs  is  filled, 
But  that  delicious  undertone  they  held  — 
Why  is  it  stilled? 


C  284  3 

Then  I  took  heart  that  I  would  find  again 
The  voices  that  had  long  in  silence  lain, 
Nor  live  in  vain. 

I  stood  at  noonday  in  the  hollow  wind, 
Listened  at  midnight,  straining  heart  and  mind 
If  I  might  find ! 

But  all  in  vain  I  sought,  at  eve  and  morn, 
On  sunny  seas,  in  dripping  woods  forlorn, 
Till  tired  and  worn, 

One  day  I  left  my  solitary  tent 
And  down  into  the  world's  bright  garden  went, 
On  labor  bent. 


The  dew  stars  and  the  buds  about  my  feet 
Began  their  old  bright  message  to  repeat, 
In  odors  sweet ; 

And  as  I  worked  at  weed  and  root  in  glee, 
Now  humming  and  now  whistling  cheerily, 
It  came  to  me,  — 


C  285  H 

The  secret  of  the  glory  that  was  fled 
Shone  like  a  sweep  of  sun  all  overhead, 
And  something  said,  — 

The  blessing  came  because  it  was  not  sought ; 
There  was  no  care  if  thou  wert  blest  or  not : 
The  beauty  and  the  wonder  all  thy  thought,  - 
Thyself  forgot." 


LOST  LOVE 

BURY  it,  and  sift 

Dust  upon  its  light,  — 

Death  must  not  be  left, 
To  offend  the  sight. 

Cover  the  old  love  — 

Weep  not  on  the  mound  — 
Grass  shall  grow  above, 

Lilies  spring  around. 

Can  we  fight  the  law, 

Can  our  natures  change  — 
Half-way  through  withdraw  — 

Other  lives  exchange  ? 

You  and  I  must  do 
As  the  world  has  done, 

There  is  nothing  new 
Underneath  the  sun. 


C 

Fill  the  grave  up  full — 
Put  the  dead  love  by — 

Not  that  men  are  dull, 
Not  that  women  lie, — 

But 't  is  well  and  right  — 
Safest,  you  will  find — 

That  the  Out  of  Sight 
Should  be  Out  of  Mind. 


C  288 


APPRECIATED 

AH,  could  I  but  be  understood ! " 

(I  prayed  the  powers  above,) 
"  Could  but  some  spirit,  bright  and  good, 
Know  me,  and,  knowing,  love ! " 

One  summer's  day  there  came  to  pass — 

A  maid ;  and  it  befell 
She  spied  and  knew  me :  yea,  alas ! 

She  knew  me  all  too  well. 

, 

Gray  were  the  eyes  of  Rosamund, 

And  I  could  see  them  see 
Through  and  through  me,  and  beyond, 

And  care  no  more  for  me. 


C  289 


MOODS 

DAWN  has  blossomed :  the  sun  is  nigh : 
Pearl  and  rose  in  the  wimpled  sky, 
Rose  and  pearl  on  a  brightening  blue  : 
(She  is  true,  and  she  is  true !) 

The  noonday  lies  all  warm  and  still 
And  calm,  and  over  sleeping  hill 
And  wheatfields  falls  a  dreamy  hue: 
(If  she  be  true  —  if  she  be  true !) 

The  patient  evening  comes,  most  sad  and  fair : 
Veiled  are  the  stars :  the  dim  and  quiet  air 
Breathes  bitter  scents  of  hidden  myrrh  and  rue 
(If  she  were  true — if  she  were  only  true !) 


SPACE 

BLACK,  frost-cold  distance,  sparsely  honeycombed 
With  hollow  shells  of  glimmering  golden  light ; 
Mere  amber  bubbles  floating  through  the  night, 
Lit  by  one  centred  sparkle,  azure-domed, 
With  circling  motes  where  life  hath  lodged  and 
roamed. 


UNTIMELY  THOUGHT 

I  LOOKED  across  the  lawn  one  summer's  day, 
Deep  shadowed,  dreaming  in  the  drowsy  light, 
And  thought,  what  if  this  afternoon,  so  bright 

And  still,  should  end  it  ?  —  as  it  may. 

Blue  dome,  and  flocks  of  fleece  that  slowly  pass 
Before  the  pale  old  moon,  the  while  she  keeps 
Her  sleepy  watch,  and  ancient  pear  that  sweeps 

Its  low,  fruit-laden  skirts  along  the  grass. 

What  if  I  had  to  say  to  all  of  these, 

"  So  this  is  the  last  time  "  —  suddenly  there 
My  love  came  loitering  under  the  great  trees ; 

And  now  the  thought  I  could  no  longer  bear : 
Startled  I  flung  it  from  me,  as  one  flings 
All  sharply  from  the  hand  a  bee  that  stings. 


C 


THE  LIFE  NATURAL 

OVERHEAD  the  leaf -song,  on  the  upland  slope ; 
Over  that  the  azure,  clean  from  base  to  cope ; 
Belle  the  mare  beside  me,  drowsy  from  her  lope. 

Goldy-green  the  wheat-field,  like  a  fluted  wall 

In  the  pleasant  wind,  with  waves  that  rise  and  fall, 

"  Moving  aU  together/'  if  it  "  move  at  all." 

Shakespeare  in  my  pocket,  lest  I  feel  alone, 
Lest  the  brooding  landscape  take  a  sombre  tone ; 
Good  to  have  a  poet  to  fall  back  upon  ! 

But  the  vivid  beauty  makes  the  book  absurd : 
What  beside  the  real  world  is  the  written  word  ? 
Keep  the  page  till  winter,  when  no  thrush  is  heard  ! 

Why  read  Hamlet  here  ?  —  what 's  Hecuba  to  me  ? 
Let  me  read  the  grain-field ;  let  me  read  the  tree ; 
Let  me  read  mine  own  heart,  deep  as  I  can  see. 


293 


THE  ORACLE 

DOWN  in  its  crystal  hollow 

Gleams  the  ebon  well  of  ink : 
In  the  deepest  drop  lies  lurking 

The  thought  all  men  shall  think. 

Fair  on  the  waiting  tablet 
Lies  the  empty  paper's  space : 

Out  of  its  snow  shall  flush  a  word 
Like  an  angel's  earnest  face. 

* 
Who  in  those  depths  shall  cast  his  line 

For  the  gnome  that  hugs  that  thought  ? 
Who  from  the  snowy  field  shall  charm 
That  flower  of  truth  untaught  ? 

Not  in  the  lore  of  the  ancients, 

Not  in  the  yesterday : 
On  the  lips  of  the  living  moments 

The  gods  their  message  lay. 


n 

Somewhere  near  it  is  waiting, 

Like  a  night-wind  wandering  free, 

Seeking  a  mouth  to  speak  through,  — 
Whose  shall  the  message  be  ? 

It  may  steal  forth  like  a  flute  note, 

It  may  be  suddenly  hurled 
In  blare  upon  blare  of  a  trumpet  blast, 

To  startle  and  stir  the  world. 

Hark  !  but  just  on  the  other  side 
Some  thinnest  wall  of  dreams, 

Murmurs  a  whispered  music, 
And  softest  rose-light  gleams. 

Listen,  and  watch,  and  tell  the  world 
What  it  almost  dies  to  know : 

Or  wait  —  and  the  wise  old  world  will  say, 
"  I  knew  it  long  ago." 


n  295 


FORCE 

THE  stars  know  a  secret 

They  do  not  tell ; 
And  morn  brings  a  message 

Hidden  well. 

There 's  a  blush  on  the  apple, 

A  tint  on  the  wing, 
And  the  bright  wind  whistles, 

And  the  pulses  sting. 

Perish  dark  memories ! 

There  's  light  ahead ; 
This  world  's  for  the  living ; 

Not  for  the  dead. 

In  the  shining  city, 

On  the  loud  pave, 
The  life-tide  is  running 

Like  a  leaping  wave. 


C 

How  the  stream  quickens, 
As  noon  draws  near, 

No  room  for  loiterers, 
No  time  for  fear. 

Out  on  the  farm  lands 
Earth  smiles  as  well ; 

Gold-crusted  grain-fields, 
With  sweet,  warm  smell ; 

Whir  of  the  reaper, 

Like  a  giant  bee ; 
Like  a  Titan  cricket, 

Thrilling  with  glee. 

On  mart  and  meadow, 
Pavement  or  plain ; 

On  azure  mountain, 
Or  azure  main  — 

Heaven  bends  in  blessing ; 

Lost  is  but  won  ; 
Goes  the  good  rain-cloud, 

Comes  the  good  sun  ! 


C 

Only  babes  whimper, 

And  sick  men  wail, 
And  faint  hearts  and  feeble  hearts 

And  weaklings  fail. 

Down  the  great  currents 

Let  the  boat  swing ; 
There  was  never  winter 

But  brought  the  spring. 


NIGHT  AND  PEACE 

NIGHT  in  the  woods,  —  night : 

Peace,  peace  on  the  plain. 
The  last  red  sunset  beam 

Belts  the  tall  beech  with  gold ; 

The  quiet  kine  are  in  the  fold, 
And  stilly  flows  the  stream. 

Soon  shall  we  see  the  stars  again, 

For  one  more  day  down  to  its  rest  has  lain, 
And  all  its  cares  have  taken  flight, 

And  all  its  doubt  and  pain. 
Night  in  the  woods,  —  night : 

Peace,  peace  on  the  plain. 


C 


THE  SINGER'S  CONFESSION 

ONCE  he  cried  to  all  the  hills  and  waters 
And  the  tossing  grain  and  tufted  grasses : 
"  Take  my  message  —  tell  it  to  my  brothers ! 
Stricken  mute  I  cannot  speak  my  message. 
When  the  evening  wind  comes  back  from  ocean, 
Singing  surf-songs,  to  Earth's  fragrant  bosom, 
And  the  beautiful  young  human  creatures 
Gather  at  the  mother  feet  of  Nature, 
Gazing  with  their  pure  and  wistful  faces, 
Tell  the  old  heroic  human  story. 
When  they  weary  of  the  wheels  of  science, 
Grinding,  jangling  their  harsh  dissonances,  — 
Stones  and  bones  and  alkalis  and  atoms,  — 
Sing  to  them  of  human  hope  and  passion ; 
And  the  soul  divine,  whose  incarnation, 
Born  of  love  —  alas !  my  message  stumbles, 
Faints  on  faltering  lips :  Oh,  speak  it  for  me ! " 

Then  a  hush  fell ;  and  around  about  him 
Suddenly  he  felt  the  mighty  shadow 


[  300  ] 

Of  the  hills,  like  grave  and  silent  pity ; 
And,  as  one  who,  sees  without  regarding, 
The  wide  wind  went  over  him  and  left  him, 
And  the  brook,  repeating  low,  "  His  message ! " 
Babbled,  as  it  fled,  a  quiet  laughter. 

What  was  he,  that  he  had  touched  their  message  — 

Theirs,  who  had  been  chanting  it  forever : 

With  whose  organ-tones  the  human  spirit 

Had  eternally  been  overflowing ! 

Then,  with  shame  that  stung  in  cheek  and  forehead, 

Slow  he  crept  away. 

And  now  he  listens, 

Mute  and  still,  to  hear  them  tell  their  message  — 
All  the  holy  hills  and  sacred  waters ; 
When  the  sea-wind  swings  its  evening  censer, 
Till  the  misty  incense  hides  the  altar 
And  the  long-robed  shadows,  lowly  kneeling. 


301 


LIVING 

"  TO-DAY/'  I  thought,  "  I  will  not  plan  nor  strive ; 
Idle  as  yon  blue  sky,  or  clouds  that  go 
Like  loitering  ships,  with  sails  as  white  as  snow, 
I  simply  will  be  glad  to  be  alive." 

For,  year  by  year,  in  steady  summer  glow 

The  flowers  had  bloomed,  and  life  had  stored  its  hive, 

But  tasted  not  the  honey.    Quite  to  thrive, 

The  flavor  of  my  thrift  I  now  would  know. 

But  the  good  breeze  blew  in  a  friend  —  a  boon 
At  any  hour.    There  was  a  book  to  show, 
A  gift  to  take,  a  slender  one  to  give. 
The  morning  passed  to  mellow  afternoon, 
And  that  to  twilight ;  it  was  sleep-time  soon,  — 
And  lo !  again  I  had  forgot  to  live. 


EVEN  THERE 

A  TROOP  of  babes  in  Summer  Land, 
At  heaven's  gate  —  the  children's  gate  : 

One  lifts  the  latch  with  rosy  hand, 

Then  turns  and,  dimpling,  asks  her  mate,  — 

"  What  was  the  last  thing  that  you  saw  ?  " 

"Hay  and  watched  the  dawn  begin, 
And  suddenly,  through  the  thatch  of  straw, 
A  great,  clear  morning  star  laughed  in." 

"  And  you  ?  "    "A  floating  thistle-down, 

Against  June  sky  and  cloud-wings  white." 

"  And  you  ?  "    "A  falling  blow,  a  frown  — 
It  frights  me  yet ;  oh,  clasp  me  tight !  " 

"  And  you  ?  "    "A  face  through  tears  that  smiled  " 

The  trembling  lips  could  speak  no  more ; 
The  blue  eyes  swam ;  the  lonely  child 
Was  homesick  even  at  heaven's  door. 


303 


SUMMER  RAIN 

I  SAID  :  "  Blue  heaven/'  (Oh,  it  was  beautiful !) 

"  Send  me  a  tent  to  shut  me  to  myself  : 

I  am  all  lonely  for  my  soul,  that  wanders 

Weary,  bewildered,  beckoned  by  thy  depths ; 

Thy  white,  round  clouds,  great  bubbles  of  creamy 

snow; 

Thy  luscious  sunshine,  like  some  ripe,  gold  fruit ; 
Thy  songs  of  birds,  and  wind  warm  with  the  flowers." 

And  there  swept  down  (Oh,  it  was  beautiful !) 

A  tent  of  silver  rain,  that  fell  like  a  veil 

Shutting  me  in  to  think  all  quiet  thoughts, 

And  feel  the  vibrant  thrill  of  shadowy  wings 

That  fluttered,  checking  their  swift  flight,  and  hear, 

Though  with  no  syllable  of  earthly  music, 

A  voice  of  melody  unutterable. 


C  304 


A  RESTING-PLACE 

A  SEA  of  shade ;  with  hollow  heights  above, 
Where  floats  the  redwood's  airy  roof  away, 

Whose  feathery  lace  the  drowsy  breezes  move, 
And  softly  through  the  azure  windows  play: 
No  nearer  stir  than  yon  white  cloud  astray, 

No  closer  sound  than  sob  of  distant  dove. 

I  only  live  as  the  deep  forest's  swoon 

Dreams  me  amid  its  dream ;  for  all  things  fade, 

Nor  pulse  of  mine  disturbs  the  unconscious  noon. 
Even  love  and  hope  are  still  —  albeit  they  made 
My  heart  beat  yesterday  —  in  slumber  laid, 

Like  yon  dim  ghost  that  last  night  was  the  moon. 

Only  the  bending  grass,  grown  gray  and  sear, 
Nods  now  and  then,  where  at  my  feet  it  swings, 

Pleased  that  another  like  itself  is  here, 

Unseen  among  the  mighty  forest  things  — 
Another  fruitless  life,  that  fading  clings 

To  earth  and  autumn  days  in  doubt  and  fear. 


C  305  ] 

Dream  on,  0  wood  !  0  wind,  stay  in  thy  west, 
Nor  wake  the  shadowy  spirit  of  the  fern, 

Asleep  along  the  fallen  pine-tree's  breast ! 

That,  till  the  sun  go  down,  and  night-stars  burn, 
And  the  chill  dawn-breath  from  the  sea  return, 

Tired  earth  may  taste  heaven's  honey-dew  of  rest. 


I   306 


A  MEMORY 

UPON  the  barren,  lonely  hill 

We  sat  to  watch  the  sinking  sun ; 
Below,  the  land  grew  dim  and  still, 

Whose  evening  shadow  had  begun. 
Her  finger  parted  the  shut  book,  — 

At  Aylmer's  Field  the  leaf  was  turned, 
Bound  her  meek  head  and  sainted  look 

The  sunset  like  a  halo  burned. 
She  knew  not  that  I  watched  her  face  — 

Her  spirit  through  her  eyes  was  gone 
To  some  far-off  and  Sabbath  place, 

And  left  me  gazing  there  alone. 
Could  she  have  known,  that  quiet  hour, 

What  ghosts  her  presence  raised  in  me, 
What  graves  were  opened  by  the  power 

Of  that  unconscious  witchery, 
She  would  not  thus  have  sat  and  seen 

The  bird  that  balanced  far  below 
On  the  blue  air,  and  watched  the  sheen 

Along  his  broad  wings  come  and  go. 


C  307  ] 

For  was  she  not  another's  bride  ? 

And  I  —  what  right  had  I  to  feast 
Upon  those  eyes  in  revery  wide, 

With  hungering  gaze  like  famished  beast  ? 
Was  it  before  my  fate  I  knelt  — 

The  human  fate,  the  mighty  law  — 
To  hunger  for  the  heart  I  felt, 

And  love  the  lovely  face  I  saw? 
Or  was  it  only  that  the  brow, 

Or  some  sweet  trick  of  hand  or  tone, 
Brought  from  the  Past  to  haunt  me  now 

Her  ghost  whose  love  was  mine  alone  ? 
I  know  not ;  but  we  went  to  rest 

That  eve,  from  songs  that  haunt  me  still, 
And  all  night  long,  in  visions  blest, 

I  walked  with  angels  on  the  hill. 


[   308   ] 


THE  OPEN  WINDOW 

MY  tower  was  grimly  builded, 
With  many  a  bolt  and  bar, 
"  And  here,"  I  thought,  "  I  will  keep  my  life 
Prom  the  bitter  world  afar." 

Dark  and  chill  was  the  stony  floor, 

Where  never  a  sunbeam  lay, 
And  the  mould  crept  up  on  the  dreary  wall, 

With  its  ghost  touch,  day  by  day. 

One  morn,  in  my  sullen  musings, 

A  flutter  and  cry  I  heard  ; 
And  close  at  the  rusty  casement 

There  clung  a  frightened  bird. 

Then  back  I  flung  the  shutter 
That  was  never  before  undone, 

And  I  kept  till  its  wings  were  rested 
The  little  weary  one. 


[  309  ] 

But  in  through  the  open  window, 

Which  I  had  forgot  to  close, 
There  had  burst  a  gush  of  sunshine 

And  a  summer  scent  of  rose. 

For  all  the  while  I  had  burrowed 

There  in  my  dingy  tower, 
Lo  !  the  birds  had  sung  and  the  leaves  had  danced 

From  hour  to  sunny  hour. 

And  such  balm  and  warmth  and  beauty 

Came  drifting  in  since  then, 
That  window  still  stands  open 

And  shall  never  be  shut  again. 


[   310 


ON  A  PICTURE  OF  MT.  SHASTA 
BY  KEITH 

Two  craggy  slopes,  sheer  down  on  either  hand, 

Fall  to  a  cleft,  dark  and  confused  with  pines. 

Out  of  their  sombre  shade  —  one  gleam  of  light  — 

Escaping  toward  us  like  a  hurrying  child, 

Half  laughing,  half  afraid,  a  white  brook  runs. 

The  fancy  tracks  it  back  through  the  thick  gloom 

Of  crowded  trees,  immense,  mysterious 

As  monoliths  of  some  colossal  temple, 

Dusky  with  incense,  chill  with  endless  time : 

Through  their  dim  arches  chants  the  distant  wind, 

Hollow  and  vast,  and  ancient  oracles 

Whisper,  and  wait  to  be  interpreted. 

Far  up  the  gorge  denser  and  darker  grows 

The  forest ;  columns  lie  with  writhen  roots  in  air, 

And  across  open  glades  the  sunbeams  slant 

To  touch  the  vanishing  wing-tips  of  shy  birds ; 

Till  from  a  mist-rolled  valley  soar  the  slopes, 

Blue-hazy,  dense  with  pines  to  the  verge  of  snow, 

Up  into  cloud.    Suddenly  parts  the  cloud, 


I  311    3 

And  lo !  in  heaven  —  as  pure  as  very  snow, 
Uplifted  like  a  solitary  world  — 
A  star,  grown  all  at  once  distinct  and  clear  — 
The  white  earth-spirit,  Shasta  !    Calm,  alone, 
Silent  it  stands,  cold  in  the  crystal  air, 
White-bosomed  sister  of  the  stainless  dawn, 
With  whom  the  cloud  holds  converse,  and  the  storm 
Bests  there,  and  stills  its  tempest  into  snow. 

Once  —  you  remember  ?  —  we  beheld  that  vision, 
But  busy  days  recalled  us,  and  the  whole 
Fades  now  among  my  memories  like  a  dream. 
The  distant  thing  is  all  incredible, 
And  the  dim  past  as  if  it  had  not  been. 
Our  world  flees  from  us ;  only  the  one  point, 
The  unsubstantial  moment,  is  our  own. 
We  are  but  as  the  dead,  save  that  swift  mote 
Of  conscious  life.     Then  the  great  artist  comes, 
Commands  the  chariot  wheels  of  Time  to  stay, 
Summons  the  distant,  as  by  some  austere 
Grand  gesture  of  a  mighty  sorcerer's  wand, 
And  our  whole  world  again  becomes  our  own. 
So  we  escape  the  petty  tyranny 
Of  the  incessant  hour ;  pure  thought  evades 


C 

Its  customary  bondage,  and  the  mind 

Is  lifted  up,  watching  the  moon-like  globe. 

. 

How  should  a  man  be  eager  or  perturbed 

Within  this  calm  ?   How  should  he  greatly  care 

For  reparation,  or  redress  of  wrong,  — 

To  scotch  the  liar,  or  spurn  the  fawning  knave, 

Or  heed  the  babble  of  the  ignoble  crew  ? 

Seest  thou  yon  blur  far  up  the  icy  slope, 

Like  a  man's  footprint  ?    Half  thy  little  town 

Might  hide  there,  or  be  buried  in  what  seems 

From  yonder  cliff  a  curl  of  feathery  snow. 

Still  the  far  peak  would  keep  its  frozen  calm, 

Still  at  the  evening  on  its  pinnacle 

Would  the  one  tender  touch  of  sunset  dwell, 

And  o'er  it  nightlong  wheel  the  silent  stars. 

So  the  great  globe  rounds  on,  —  mountains,  and  vales, 

Forests,  waste  stretches  of  gaunt  rock  and  sand, 

Shore,  and  the  swaying  ocean,  —  league  on  league ; 

And  blossoms  open,  and  are  sealed  in  frost ; 

And  babes  are  born,  and  men  are  laid  to  rest. 

What  is  this  breathing  atom,  that  his  brain 

Should  build  or  purpose  aught  or  aught  desire, 

But  stand  a  moment  in  amaze  and  awe, 

Rapt  on  the  wonderf  ulness  of  the  world  ? 


313 


THE  TREE  OF  MY  LIFE 

WHEN  I  was  yet  but  a  child,  the  gardener  gave  me  a 

tree, 
A  little  slim  elm,  to  be  set  wherever  seemed  good  to 

me. 
What  a  wonderful  thing  it  seemed !  with  its  lace-edge 

leaves  uncurled, 

And  its  span-long  stem,  that  should  grow  to  the  grand 
est  tree  in  the  world. 
So  I  searched  all  the  garden  round,  and  out  over  field 

and  hill, 
But  not  a  spot  could  I  find  that  suited  my  wayward 

will. 
I  would  have  it  bowered  in  the  grove,  in  a  close  and 

quiet  vale ; 
I  would  rear  it  aloft  on  the  height,  to  wrestle  with  the 

gale. 

Then  I  said,  "  I  will  cover  its  roots  with  a  little  earth 

by  the  door, 
And  there  it  shall  live  and  wait,  while  I  search  for  a 

place  once  more. 


C  314  ]] 

But  still  I  could  never  find  it,  the  place  for  my  won 
drous  tree, 

And  it  waited  and  grew  by  the  door,  while  years 
passed  over  me. 

Till  suddenly,  one  fine  day,  I  saw  it  was  grown  too 
tall, 

And  its  roots  gone  down  too  deep,  to  be  ever  moved 
at  all. 

So  here  it  is  growing  still,  by  the  lowly  cottage  door ; 

Never  so  grand  and  tall  as  I  dreamed  it  would  be  of 
yore, 

But  it  shelters  a  tired  old  man  in  its  sunshine-dappled 
shade, 

The  children's  pattering  feet  round  its  knotty  knees 
have  played, 

Dear  singing  birds  in  a  storm  sometimes  take  refuge 
there, 

And  the  stars  through  its  silent  boughs  shine  glori 
ously  fair. 


315   ] 


A  CHILD  AND  A  STAR 

THE  star,  so  pure  in  saintly  white, 
Deep  in  the  solemn  soul  of  night, 
With  dreams  of  deathless  beauty  wed, 
And  golden  ways  that  seraphs  tread : 
The  child  —  so  mere  a  thing  of  earth, 
So  meek  a  flower  of  mortal  birth : 
A  far-off  lucent  world,  so  bright, 
Stooping  to  touch  with  tender  light 
That  little  gown  at  evening  prayer : 
It  seems  a  condescension  rare,  — 
Heaven  round  a  common  child  to  glow ! 
Ah !  wiser  eyes  of  angels  know 
The  star,  a  toy  but  roughly  wrought ; 
The  child,  God's  own  most  loving  thought. 
Yon  evening  planet,  wan  with  moons, 
Colossal,  'mid  its  dim,  swift  noons,  — 
What  is  it  but  a  bulk  of  stone, 
Like  this  gray  globe  we  dwell  upon  ? 
Down  hollow  spaces,  sightless,  chill, 
Its  vibrant  beams  in  darkness  thrill, 


C  316  1 

Till  through  some  window  drift  the  rays 
Where  a  pure  heart  looks  up  and  prays ; 
And  in  that  silent  worshiper, 
The  waves  of  feeling  stir  and  stir, 
And  spread  in  wider  rings  above, 
To  tremble  at  God's  heart  of  love. 
Though  it  be  kingliest  one  of  all 
His  worlds,  't  is  but  a  stony  ball : 
What  are  they  all,  from  sun  to  sun, 
But  dust  and  stubble,  when  ah1  's  done? 
Some  heavenly  grace  it  only  caught, 
When,  like  a  hint  from  home,  it  brought 
To  a  child's  heart  one  tender  thought : 
Itself  in  that  great  mystery  lost, 
As  some  bright  pebble,  idly  tost 
Into  the  darkling  sea  at  night, 
Whose  widening  ripples,  running  light, 
Go  out  into  the  infinite. 


317   3 


AT  DAWN 

I  LAY  awake  and  listened,  ere  the  light 
Began  to  whiten  at  the  window  pane. 
The  world  was  all  asleep :  earth  was  a  fane 
Emptied  of  worshipers ;  its  dome  of  night, 
Its  silent  aisles,  were  awful  in  their  gloom. 
Suddenly  from  the  tower  the  bell  struck  four, 
Solemn  and  slow,  how  slow  and  solemn !  o'er 
Those  death-like  slumberers,  each  within  his  room. 
The  last  reverberation  pulsed  so  long 
It  seemed  no  tone  of  earthly  mould  at  all. 
But  the  bell  woke  a  thrush ;  and  with  a  call 
He  roused  his  mate,  then  poured  a  tide  of  song : 
Morning  is  coming,  fresh,  and  clear,  and  blue," 
Said  that  bright  song ;  and  then  I  thought  of  you. 


318 


AN  ADAGE  FROM  THE  ORIENT 

AT  the  punch-bowl's  brink, 
Let  the  thirsty  think 
What  they  say  in  Japan  : 


"  First  the  man  takes  a  drink, 
Then  the  drink  takes  a  drink, 
Then  the  drink  takes  the  man  !  " 


319  ] 


A  PARADOX 

HASTE,  haste,  0   laggard!  —  leave   thy  drowsy 

dreams ; 
Cram  all  thy  brain  with  knowledge  —  clutch  and 

cram! 

The  earth  is  wide,  the  universe  is  vast : 
Thou  hast  infinity  to  learn.    Oh,  haste ! 

Haste  not,  haste  not,  my  soul !  "  Infinity !  " 
Thou  hast  eternity  to  learn  it  in. 
Thy  boundless  lesson  through  the  endless  years 
Hath  boundless  leisure.    Kun  not  like  a  slave  — 
Sif  like  a  king,  and  see  the  ranks  of  worlds 
Wheel  in  their  cycles  onward  to  thy  feet. 


C  320 


THE  PHILOSOPHER 

His  wheel  of  logic  whirled  and  spun  all  day ; 
All  day  he  held  his  system,  grinding  it 
Finer  and  finer,  till 't  was  fined  away. 

But  the  chance  sparks  of  sense  and  mother-wit, 
Flung  out  as  that  wheel-logic  spun  and  whirled, 
Kindled  the  nations,  and  lit  up  the  world. 


A  BIRD'S  SONG 

THE  shadow  of  a  bird 

On  the  shadow  of  a  bough  ; 
Sweet  and  clear  his  song  is  heard, 

"  Seek  me  now  —  I  seek  thee  now." 
The  bird  swings  out  of  reach  in  the  swaying  tree, 
But  his  shadow  on  the  garden  walk  below  belongs  to 
me. 

The  phantom  of  my  Love 

False  dreams  with  hope  doth  fill, 
Softly  singing  far  above, 

"  Love  me  still  —  I  love  thee  still !  " 
The  cruel  vision  hovers  at  my  sad  heart's  door, 
But  the  soul  love  is  soaring  out  of  reach  for  ever 
more. 


322 


THE  DEAD  PRESIDENT 

WEKE  there  no  crowns  on  earth, 
No  evergreen  to  weave  a  hero's  wreath, 
That  he  must  pass  beyond  the  gates  of  death, 
Our  hero,  our  slain  hero,  to  be  crowned  ? 
Could  there  on  our  unworthy  earth  be  found 

Naught  to  befit  his  worth  ? 

The  noblest  soul  of  all ! 
When  was  there  ever,  since  our  Washington, 
A  man  so  pure,  so  wise,  so  patient  —  one 
Who  walked  with  this  high  goal  alone  in  sight, 
To  speak,  to  do,  to  sanction  only  Right, 

Though  very  heaven  should  fall ! 

Ah,  not  for  him  we  weep ; 
What  honor  more  could  be  in  store  for  him  ? 
Who  would  have  had  him  linger  in  our  dim 
And  troublesome  world,  when  his  great  work  was 

done  — 
Who  would  not  leave  that  worn  and  weary  one 

Gladly  to  go  to  sleep  ? 


[   323   ] 

For  us  the  stroke  was  just ; 
We  were  not  worthy  of  that  patient  heart ; 
We  might  have  helped  him  more,  not  stood  apart, 
And  coldly  criticised  his  works  and  ways  — 
Too  late  now,  all  too  late  —  our  little  praise 

Sounds  hollow  o'er  his  dust. 

Be  merciful,  0  our  God  ! 
Forgive  the  meanness  of  our  human  hearts, 
That  never,  till  a  noble  soul  departs, 
See  half  the  worth,  or  hear  the  angel's  wings 
Till  they  go  rustling  heavenward  as  he  springs 

Up  from  the  mounded  sod. 

Yet  what  a  deathless  crown 
Of  Northern  pine  and  Southern  orange-flower, 
For  victory,  and  the  land's  new  bridal  hour, 
Would  we  have  wreathed  for  that  beloved  brow  ! 
Sadly  upon  his  sleeping  forehead  now 

We  lay  our  cypress  down. 

0  martyred  one,  farewell ! 
Thou  hast  not  left  thy  people  quite  alone, 


C   324   ] 

Out  of  thy  beautiful  life  there  comes  a  tone 
Of  power,  of  love,  of  trust,  a  prophecy, 
Whose  fair  fulfillment  all  the  earth  shall  be, 
And  all  the  Future  tell. 


325 


ROLAND 

A  FOOLISH  creature  full  of  fears, 

He  trembled  for  his  fate, 
And  stood  aghast  to  feel  the  earth 

Swing  round  her  dizzy  freight. 

With  timid  foot  he  touched  each  plan, 
Sure  that  each  plan  would  fail ; 

Behemoth's  tread  was  his,  it  seemed, 
And  every  bridge  too  frail. 

No  glory  of  the  night  or  day 

Lit  any  crown  for  him, 
The  tranquil  past  but  breathed  a  mist 

To  make  the  future  dim. 

The  world,  his  birthright,  seemed  a  cell, 

An  iron  heritage ; 
Man,  a  trapped  creature,  left  to  die 

Forgotten  in  his  cage. 


In  every  dark  he  held  his  breath, 

And  warded  off  a  blow ; 
While  at  his  shoulder  still  he  sought 

Some  tagging  ghost  of  woe. 

Spying  the  thorns  but  not  the  flowers, 
Through  all  the  blossoming  land 

He  hugged  his  careful  heart  and  shunned 
The  path  on  either  hand. 

The  buds  that  broke  their  hearts  .to  give 

New  odors  to  the  air 
He  saw  not ;  but  he  caught  the  scent 

Of  dead  leaves  everywhere. 

Till  on  a  day  he  came  to  know 

He  had  not  made  the  world ; 
That  if  he  slept,  as  when  he  ran, 

Each  onward  planet  whirled. 

He  knew  not  where  the  vision  fell, 
Only  all  things  grew  plain  — 

As  if  some  thatch  broke  through  and  let 
A  sunbeam  cross  his  brain. 


C  327  ] 

In  beauty  flushed  the  morning  light, 
With  blessing  dropped  the  rain, 

All  creatures  were  to  him  most  f air, 
Nor  anything  in  vain. 

He  breathed  the  space  that  links  the  stars, 

He  rested  on  God's  arm  — 
A  man  unmoved  by  accident, 

Untouched  by  any  harm. 

The  weary  doubt  if  all  is  good, 

The  doubt  if  all  is  ill, 
He  left  to  Him  who  leaves  to  us 

To  know  that  all  is  well. 


THIS  EDITION  CONSISTS  OF  500  COPIES 
PRINTED  BY  H.  0.  HOUGHTON  &  COMPANY 
AT  THE  RIVERSIDE  PRESS  CAMBRIDGE 
FOR  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  &  COMPANY  OF 
BOSTON  NEW  YORK  AND  CHICAGO  1902 


JVb. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
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' 

Cr-Q     ,-, 

°CP  24  |936 

OCT  0  1936 

'SNov'6/DM 

. 

j\iQV  1  0  196Z 

••  •  •  •   •. 

LD  21-100m-8,'34 

679819 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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